


Just Walk Beside Me

by SPNxBookworm, WinchesterPooja (chronic_potterphile)



Series: Get Us Through the Night [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU after ep 9.14, Angst, Brotherly Bonding, Brotherly SamnDean, Dark, Depression, Destiel - Freeform, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Gore, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Possession, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Trauma Syndrome, Sam-Cas friendship, Sick Sam Winchester, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing, Team Free Will, Team Free Will Big Bang 2014, Temporary Character Death, mentions of past non-con, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-15 12:37:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 64,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3447461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SPNxBookworm/pseuds/SPNxBookworm, https://archiveofourown.org/users/chronic_potterphile/pseuds/WinchesterPooja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is really able to handle all those nightmares and memories from the time when Abbadon possessed him without falling apart, thank you very much. He's coping very well. What he doesn't get is why Sam and Cas are lying to him about the time when they were trying to rescue him. </p><p>When a startlingly familiar face knocks on their door with an odd case, Sam, Dean and Castiel scramble to join in and help, and the events lead to too many revelations. Neither of the three of them might be coping at all. Add to this Sam's odd timing for a migraine from hell, a creepy shaman, another familiar face, and a weird note in ancient Chinese, and they might just be all set for a second nightmare in a really short span of time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Riddle Me This

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> So. We finally put our TFWBB submission on AO3. LOL. Before you proceed to read, though, please pay heed to all tags and warnings up there. The fic ends with hope, but it's a dark ride there, and we want you to be prepared. Also, this fic is AU after ep 9.14, 'Captives.'
> 
> And there are a few people we’d like to sincerely thank: 
> 
> The tfwbigbang mods, for organizing this. You have done a splendid job! 
> 
> Our amazing beta, walking_tornado, who stepped in as our saviour and was awesome, and a total ninja. She's the reason this fic is remotely readable.
> 
> alaniesanar for her help with the first two chapters. 
> 
> The most awesome minarosette, who claimed our fic and was super sweet and responsive and made the most amazing art for our story! We may or may not have flailed helplessly seeing the art, and we know you will, too!
> 
> Our friends, mutual and individual, remy-areyousrs, who was a beautiful cheerleader, and who offered to beta too, when we had some issues, and nomercles, who had complete faith in us pulling off these heavy topics. 
> 
> This fic a sequel to winchesterpooja's one-shot, The Darkest Night, and is the second part of this ‘verse, but can be read as a standalone. This story means a lot to us and we really hope you all like it! 
> 
> This fic has some gorgeous art by the lovely minarosette. We are still baffled at her skills. :)

 

**[[Art Post: Contains fic spoilers!]](http://minarosette.livejournal.com/2986.html) **

 

**One: Riddle Me This**

 

**_Sam_ **

The doorbell is creepy.

Like, legitimately haunted-house creepy.

And it is creepier since it's almost midnight and no doorbell ever rings at this hour.

Sam grimaces at the noise, and wonders who is at the door, seeing as the house they are squatting in has been abandoned for years. Word is that it had been haunted, and that people had died here — which is true, because there had been a nasty poltergeist, ultimately taken care of by a hunter whose name Sam doesn't care to remember. No one even comes by this house anymore and it's weird that someone is here, using the doorbell, and waiting for an answer, almost as if they know the house is temporarily inhabited.

Sam suspects he knows who's waiting for him outside. He hadn't expected it to happen this way. They've warded the house, cast a spell to keep away intruders; so unless they allow a visitor, no one can enter. Even then, Sam pulls the gun out of his waistband and undoes the safety as he opens the door.

A gust of wind blows at his face.

He blinks the dust in his eyes away and scans the dark landscape to see if he can get a glimpse of his guest, but there is no one. No one shifting about, trying to hide or run away. Sam takes a whiff of the rain and squints up at the blue-and-purple midnight sky, vaguely wondering if a thunderstorm is approaching. It looks like grape juice with whipped cream up there, the moon floating big and full, like a marshmallow separating the frothy layers of cream.

Sam can't remember it, but Dean has often told him, his lips quirking in a smile, that Sam once _did_ demand grape juice with whipped cream for breakfast when he was four or something. And then he puked it back up all over Dean.

_"Ruined my favourite shirt, bitch!"_

Sam chuckles at the memory and his chest hurts a little because he realises that that innocence will never be back. He sighs, raises his nose, and smells the rain again. Dean would also say that you can't smell rain, but Sam disagrees with him; you totally can. There is a heaviness in the air, a chill, and a characteristic earthy smell all around before it rains, and this is different from the soothing smell of wet mud (which Sam loves just as much).

He remembers a time, a day that's tucked away in his mind, when he and Jess had taken a walk at a park just after a rainy episode. A tree had shed some of its flowers and they laid in a pile on the wet grass, their heavenly scent mixing with the cool air to create a very pleasant atmosphere. It's still a memory that Sam likes to tap into, to calm himself when he gets restless, and it almost always works.

Sam sighs as he thinks of the things that are wreaking havoc in his mind right now. He wonders if he made a mistake after all, by listening to Dean and bringing them here. Dean has taken care of Sam all his life, and now it's Sam's turn to return the gesture, but he can't. If he could, they wouldn't be stuck in Ass-Land, Kentucky, in The Creepy House from every horror movie ever. And seriously — this place sucks more than any other place they've ever squatted. The wood is old and the floorboards wobble beneath Sam's feet. The threadbare curtains on the windows are so dusty, Sam's sneezed around sixty times in the last hour. And, oh, the glass on the windows. The grime and the shit on them, and the way they've melted down, thickened at the edges — they're not even worth looking out of. They can barely help with all the guard that has to be kept.

Apart from all that, every single door in the house whines and groans under Sam's touch — and Dean would make fun of this thought; Dean would, but just like the glass that has melted down and thickened at the bottom, Dean has too. He has dissolved, burned down, _given up_.

 _No_ , Sam thinks. Dean will be okay. He will be fine. Sam won't let it go there. But has it gone there already? It might have, because Sam really, really sucks at everything he does.

Sam sucks because, if he were a good brother, Dean wouldn't have had a near breakdown when Sam drove them to a motel because Sam would have known not to do that. He'd have gotten Dean to talk and release some of his burdens by now.

He sighs again, pulls himself away from the disturbing thoughts as he makes to shut the door, because the fact remains that no one's outside right now. But that isn't before he notices something on the floor, just near his feet.

It's an envelope, a plain, white envelope, with nothing on it, except, in neat, loopy handwriting, a single word — 'Winchester'.

 _Well, that's specific_.

The letter is addressed to a Winchester, and this means that _any_ Winchester can take it, so Sam goes ahead and tears the envelope open. A piece of paper falls into his hand, with what seems to be, at first sight, cuneiform written on it. Sam narrows his eyes as he examines it.

He frowns at the words. A chill runs through him and he stands there, trying to figure out the script that he might be reading.

"Sam?"

Castiel's voice from behind him distracts Sam and he turns around to see his friend perched on one of the old chairs at the termite-eaten dining table. Castiel arches his eyebrows. "Who is it?"

Sam shakes his head. "No one." He shuts the door, walks in, and takes a seat beside Castiel before putting the envelope and the letter on this table. "This was on the doorstep, though."

Castiel takes the letter in his hands and licks his lips as he scrutinises it. His eyes narrow. "This is an ancient language," he says at long last, putting the letter down.

"Yeah, I kinda got that," Sam says, running his hand through his hair. "You can – you can read ancient languages, can't you?"

"I _could_ ," Castiel replies.

And that says it all. Sam opens his mouth, and wants to ask Cas about it, but really; is there a point? He just swallows, and clears his throat. "What I don't understand is—" he squints at the paper, "what is this? Is this Chinese? I mean — that would fit, wouldn't it?"

Castiel pays closer attention to the writing, scrunches his face a little, and clears his throat. "This resembles ancient Chinese script, yes." He sighs. "I'm sorry I can't read it, Sam."

"That's okay," Sam says lightly, trying to make it sound like it's normal, but they have a bucket of not normal here and this just…

He's so fucking worried. Too many things. He'll suffocate someday, he feels. Suffocate under it all.

How does Dean even handle it?

"Sam?"

Cas's voice jolts him out of his reverie, and Sam steals a glance at his friend before nodding. "We'll find someone in the morning to translate it for us. Maybe it's just another of Gan's threats." He opens his father's journal and leafs through the pages before locating the right one. They are dealing with a Xi-Shaman, a Chinese sorcerer named Gan Shu Ning, whose case dragged them all this way. Honestly, Sam had really hoped to sort this out without Dean or Cas, because of the circumstances, but of course Dean was stubborn.

Dean. Dean, _Dean_. Sam is worried. So fucking worried. He takes a sharp breath before speaking to Cas. "Did you check on Dean? How's he doing?"

No, Dean's not doing okay, but Sam still _hopes_ that Dean will get better. Dean will not yield so soon and accept help, though, and Sam knows it. But… _fuck_.

"The same," Castiel says in reply to Sam's question. "He won't let me too close."

Castiel looks tired and in pain. Sam knows the cause of all of that. Sam knows why Cas can't read Ancient Chinese anymore. Dean doesn't and they've vowed not to make Dean worry any more than he is already.

Sam sighs and nods. "Yeah, being possessed does that to you. I was jumpy too, after – after all the times." He doesn't say all _three_ times, because he doesn't want to count anymore. Three times is three times too many. Sam also doesn't reveal the _other_ thing that is eating at his mind, because he doesn't want to assume anything, or freak Cas out.

He wishes Dean didn't have to go through this because it's not fair. At least one of them should have been spared from this shit.

Dean… Well, Dean is messed up. Sam knows better than most people that being possessed for months together isn't going to leave his brother the same as before, but after his own experiences with possession and two hundred years of Hell, he's been all kinds of messed up, so he knows that Dean's been through more than he's letting on.

 _How much worse can it get than possession?_ Sam's gut shivers. _A lot worse._

Dean's panic attack outside the motel scared Sam. One moment, Dean was yelling at Sam _,_ "Not a motel, Sam," and then he became hysterical and begging, "Sammy, turn around, turn around… please." He had then listed forward, eyes wide, hand at his chest, struggling for breath, and Sam had thrown the car into park as Castiel got out of the backseat while the car was still moving. Both of them had tried to help Dean breathe. Sam rested his brother's forehead against his shoulder while Cas patted his back from behind, both of them alternatively coaching and _pleading_ for Dean to breathe. This one was worse than the many other panic attacks, but it was also the first where Dean had actually allowed Sam and Cas to help.

Sam's room in the bunker isn't close to Dean's, and he hasn't slept properly in a week — ever since they got Dean back — because he's been keeping vigil around his brother's room, looking for signs of distress. His heart has been shredded each time he's heard Dean wake up with a gasp, followed by desperate, muffled sobbing. The first time it happened, Sam burst into Dean's room and Dean had thrown his iPod at him, yelling at him to leave.

" _Go. Away. Fuck, I don't want you here! Do you understand?"_

And Dean had looked _broken_.

Panic attacks followed the nightmares, and Dean got worse if he was not left alone, so Sam and Cas just stood outside the room the whole time, knowing what Dean was going through inside, just a fucking wooden door away, and yet, helpless. The last thing they wanted to do was force their assistance upon Dean. Dean doesn't understand what Sam goes through — how he battles something so similar. Dean never did really _get_ it, but Sam knows what Dean needs. Dean requires his own control, his autonomy.

"You should try talking to him, Sam," Cas tells him, breaking him out of his reverie. "He might feel a little better. He trusts you, after all."

"Not anymore," Sam says with a snort. "I said a lot of shit to him, Cas, and—" His voice catches in his throat as he turns away and shakes his head. _No, fuck, this is no time to get overwhelmed._

He shakes his head again. "No, you're better off. He'd be more comfortable telling you… if he ever does. I don't know what happened, Cas. I don't know how much more _she's_ done to him that we aren't even aware of, and… fuck." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "And _fuck_ , _fuck_ , I made him think that I wouldn't care if he _died_." He didn't actually mean that, of course, but he had loved hurting Dean at that moment, and God, how could he have done that?

 _Monster,_ says a voice in Sam's head. _You're a monster._ And, fuck, he is.

"He knows you didn't mean what you said," Castiel tells him.

"He told you that?"

"You saved him." That hardly answers Sam's question.

"No." Sam sighs. "That was _you_. All you. I just somehow caught _her_." He buries his head in his hands. "You should probably go see if Dean needs something."

Castiel understands that Sam is asking him to leave, and exits without a word. Sam sits there at the table, the Shaman's message lying in front of him, with his thoughts swirling like the clouds outside, as sour and terrible as grape juice with whipped cream.

He feels sick.

**~o~**

**_Dean_ **

Try as he might, Dean can't get any shut-eye. He's retreated to the dark and gloomy bedroom of the abandoned house when Sam and Cas kept insisting he rest. Dean doesn't blame them. He knows he looks like a walking corpse, but he can't help himself.

They'd first decided to stop at a motel but upon nearing it. Dean wasn't able to keep in the terror that kept trying to overpower him. He didn't realize he was hyperventilating until it had turned into a full blown panic attack, which made Sam immediately veer the Impala out of the motel driveway.

Dean runs a tired hand over his face as he stares at the cracked ceiling. He hates being like this, but those memories, those days, they just doesn't seem to let go. They come back, night after night, assaulting him in the form of horrifying replays and dreams.

**_Have you listened to a girl scream, as you rip her guts out?_ **

Dean remembers the names of some of those girls. Rose, Penny, Kim, Lexy, Alicia… Jo. This Jo hadn't shared any similarities with the Jo he'd known, but he remembers her screams. He remembers his hands moving to rip out Alicia's guts and his eyes meeting hers as the life drained out of her. He remembers laughing because he was never in control.

_Sammy… Cas… help, please…_

**_I'd like to see them try._ **

_The babies were screaming, wordless, wanting their mothers' arms around them, all in onesies, not even out of diapers; some were even toothless. So fragile. So small. Then, his big hands were maiming them, mauling them, as his lips tasted their blood, but Abaddon never let go, her laugh a roar in his ears. Her voice was sickening, and the power she had over him was terrible. When he tried to fight: **How about we drain an extra baby today, Dean? In celebration of your efforts?**_

_He wished for the police to find him. He wished for Abaddon to leave. He wished for Sam and Cas to find them, and then, he wished for death. None of that came true anytime soon. He only suffered, on and on. The last straw was the day that Abaddon led him to the motel, to another leering demon who had seemed all too happy to see Dean._

Dean remembers every detail of it because Abaddon wanted him to. He remembers the puke-green walls, the dirty bed with the yellow sheets and the seedy toilet with its stained porcelain. And he remembers the pain. He remembers being pushed against a wall, a strange hand bracing the back of his head, while the other held his shoulder roughly. And he remembers the grunts as he was pushed, repeatedly, against the wall, his bare belly knocking against it, hard enough to bruise. He remembers the blood that ran between his legs and the cries that escaped him when Abaddon relinquished partial control over his body to let him experience the agony first-hand. He was then being shoved against the bed with a mouth on his, a tongue invading his mouth and hands grasping his hair so hard that some was pulled out. He remembers more anguished sobs as Abaddon laughed in his ear and the creaking of bedsprings as he was turned onto his stomach again and **_pain, pain, pain, pain…_**

"No!" Dean yells as he jerks awake. He's covered in slick sweat and he regrets dozing off. He runs a hand automatically, back and forth, over the burn where the Mark of Cain used to be. It was useless, powerless without the First Blade and Abaddon had burned it away with some black magic that Dean doesn't remember. The arm was almost completely gone, but Cas salvaged it. The burn mark still remains, though, for Cas to continue healing, but Dean thinks it's there to stay, a sordid reminder of what he's been through.

He tries to relax, but it doesn't help that his heart is hammering against his chest. He works to control his breathing, picturing the way Sam and Cas had helped him calm down when he'd panicked earlier.

_Inhale. Exhale._

_Inhale. Exhale._

_Why isn't this working?!_

_Inhale. Exhale._

_Inhale._

_Exhale._

_In—_

_Shit._

_No._

Dean's hands splay against the cold floor around him as he tries to take in air. He feels his heart beating even faster and his chest is starting to ache. Instead slowing down, his breaths come in quick pants, but he can't get any air in.

Dean eyes widen as he rests his back on the wall. He tries to breathe through it because _this is not happening again, damn it._

"No," he mouths.

His vision starts to blur through a thin film of tears as darkness creeps in. He feels them roll down his cheeks, mixing with the sweat, and he gasps, heaving sobs escaping him as he claps a hand over his mouth to muffle them. He hates the tears. He hates it all. He doesn't know why he's crying. What the _fuck_ is he crying for? Because he should be able to handle this. He's not a kid or a wuss. He's Dean Fucking Winchester and he's not a cry-baby. After all the shit he's been through, he despises the fact that he's breaking now.

The tears stop. He forces them away, sucking them in and coaxing them to stay inside. Crying is for the weak. He won't cry. All this distress will only prove that Abaddon won, and she didn't, she didn't win.

He draws in a breath. It hurts, it hurts everywhere, _everything_ , but…

He breathes again. And again. Through the pain. Through the urge to break down and shatter. Through the want and will to die. He breathes because he has to.

"Pull yourself together," he growls to himself, between heavy breaths, as he holds his knees to his chest and rests his elbows on them, hands clutching at his hair.

 _It's okay, Dean, it's okay,_ Sam's voice says in his head. And it's not okay, it's not okay, but Sam says it is…

He breathes one more time and lets it continue.

If Sam and Cas were here right now, they would see how useless and screwed up Dean is.

Dean laughs humourlessly at the thought. They've already seen him having a panic attack once. They probably think, now, that Dean needs some sharing and caring, some back rubs, and someone to play nursemaid. They think he's prepared to be babied, but fuck them; he can take care of himself.

Dean rubs tiredly at his eyes. He's rarely been able to get more than a few minutes of sleep before the nightmares start tearing him apart. He wonders if this was how Sam felt when Cas broke his wall after he had gotten his soul back.

He feels even worse for his little brother, than he did before.

Hearing the doorknob click, Dean tenses. Had someone knocked first, or did he not hear it? He looks up to see Castiel poke his head around the door and Dean immediately stares at the floor. He sees Cas sit down beside his sleeping bag.

He can't explain it, but all of a sudden, he feels enclosed, claustrophobic. He moves ever so slightly away from Cas and almost sighs in relief when Castiel doesn't question it.

They sit like that, in silence, for a while. Each moment weighs heavily on Dean, but he appreciates that Castiel gives him his space. He is more than thankful to him.

Dean warily looks up at the eyes staring at him. Uncomfortable, Dean clears his throat and Cas looks away.

"You need anything?" Dean asks him.

"No."

Dean nods. "Something wrong?" he asks.

"Not really," Cas answers back.

Dean's temper rises. "Dude, just spit it out!" he snaps.

Dean almost feels guilty as he finally meets Castiel's eyes and sees the hurt and shock in them. He's snapped at Cas before, and he usually regrets doing it; Cas doesn't deserve it, but Dean can't seem to control his emotions. He just feels so fucked right now… Cas doesn't have any right to be moping around the way he is.

He tries to rein in his temper. _It's not Cas's fault_ , he reminds himself.

There is a moment of silence. Dean watches Castiel purse his lips before asking, "Are you okay?"

Dean lets out an exasperated sigh, looking towards the ceiling. "I'm fine, Cas. More than that, I'm tired of people asking me that."

"Dean—"

"I'm fine, okay? I'm alive, aren't I?" Dean snaps again. "Look, I'm happy you guys got me outta there. Yeah, it's been hell. Yeah, I probably freaked you and Sam out, but I'm fine. _What else do you want me to say?_ " Dean yells.

Cas faces Dean. "I want you to be okay. That's all, Dean. We both know the truth here," Cas says in a gentle tone.

Dean groans as he lays his head in his hands. "You don't know anything," he says.

"No, I don't, and neither does Sam. We are not pushing you, Dean. We just want to be there for you," Castiel says calmly.

That does it. The anger simmering just below the surface boils up as Dean lets out a snarl. He gets to his knees, facing Cas angrily. "Look! I know you two have done a lot for me okay? But this? This is _my_ problem. So you can stop, 'cause I can take care of myself.

"And as for what happened all those weeks that I was with _her_? You don't know; and trust me, you don't want to. So, don't you even try to understand what I'm feeling, 'cause you can't. Just...leave me alone, Cas. Just go."

"Dean—"

"GO!" Dean bellows.

Cas raises his hands in surrender. "Fine. I'm leaving." He gets up and moves towards the door, Dean's glare following him. Just before leaving, Castiel turns around and meets Dean's eyes. "I know you probably don't want to hear anything from me right now," Cas says, holding up a stern hand when Dean tries to interrupt. "But just know that I'm here. Sam and I, we're both here."

He leaves the room, looking more tired than Dean has ever seen him. Dean feels the anger drain out of him as he flops back onto the sleeping bag. A wave of sadness rushes over him, and all he wants to do is scream and cry and fucking _kill_ something, preferably himself. But he can't. It's just overwhelming and he… he can't. He pulls at his hair, almost relishing in the pricks of pain when a few strands come loose.

"Fuck," he whispers to himself as tears blur his vision and surpass the rims of his eyes to run silently down his cheeks.

**~o~**

**_Sam_ **

The guilt that Sam feels trumps everything right now. Outside the dilapidated window, there is a flash of lightning and Sam looks up, smiling wistfully as he listens for thunder. He remembers being little, and hiding under his blankets, keeping his tears at bay during thunderstorms, and he remembers the young voice from the bed next to his.

_"Sammy, I'm here, pal. Just go to sleep."_

Dean had always been there when he was scared. Most kids have a mother who tucks them in and kisses their skinned knees, but Sam had Dean. Dean, who made fun of him for being scared, but was there to console him nonetheless. Dean, who gave up his own childhood to conserve Sam's.

What a damn shame, that Sam is unable to find a way to be there for his brother now when it's most necessary.

He looks at the Chinese letters before him again and vows to get them translated first thing in the morning. He's tired now, and he wants to rest for a bit. Maybe when he's awake, his mind will be clearer, too, because right now, with everything going on, Sam can hardly think straight.

Sifting through the muddled thoughts in his head, Sam buries his face in his hands and feels his eyelashes fluttering against his fingers as he shuts his eyes. He is distracted by a familiar voice coming from behind him.

"Hey, need any help?"

Sam turns around then, still trying to get used to his guest. He looks at the tall figure and the familiar clothes before peering into the dark eyes. This figure used to intimidate him, but right now, Sam can't muster enough strength or emotion for _anything_.

Meanwhile, John Winchester smiles faintly, showing off his dimples, as he steps into the light. Sam smiles back at him, equally wanly.

"Hey, Dad."


	2. Interlude: A Long Way Home

 

**Interlude: A Long Way Home**

**_The previous day_ **

**_John_ **

"I'm not lost," John mutters to himself uncertainly, not sure whether he's even convincing himself. He looks around, hoping to spot something that indicates that he'd been tracking his sons right. He pulls out the notebook he'd managed to snag from a stationary shop and reads over his notes again. He's followed every alias he knows his boys could have, and after connecting the dots here and there, he's positive that he's in the right place. Although, he's wondering what they're doing in Lebanon, Kansas.

But why does it seem like his boys have never been here?

John groans inwardly as he walks for a few blocks, hoping to spot a motel or _something_ that will give him even the tiniest of signs that his sons are here, that they're _alive._ He refuses to think of anything else. If they were dead, he would have known. With his deep-seated instincts, he'd have known.

He walks along for a while. Sees several faces which are not familiar. The instinct in him burns, and tells him his boys are _here_ , but he doesn't know anymore. A newspaper he stole a few hours ago informed him that the year is 2016. That makes it a whole ten years since he gave up his life to save Dean. He wonders what became of the demon, and he wonders if Dean was able to save Sam in time. The last memory he recalls is the intense, white hot pain in his chest, his inability to breathe and finally everything going black, and that was the day he sold his soul for Dean — and there are some more vague flashes, of him holding amorphous demon smoke and Sam and Dean's very distraught faces looking at him…

… He's not sure what those other flashes are of.

He is rounding a corner, lost in thought, when the sight of something makes John stop in his tracks. He looks at the object, dumbfounded. It's the Impala. The plates are not the same, but it's a '67 Chevy Impala and John would recognise it blind. What's even more surprising is that it looks exactly like _the_ Impala.

She's standing there before him in the parking lot of the convenience store, majestic and gleaming, reminding him of Sammy's baby days and Dean strapped up in his car seat at the back, occasionally pushing a milk bottle or a pacifier between Sam's little lips to get him to calm down. Dean would be so quiet… so quiet, his voice low, only meant for Sam to hear, and Sam only listening to Dean.

It's surprising to John that the Impala has been around this long. He cautiously walks up to it, almost expecting a trap. Nearing it, he just knows that he's right. It _is_ his. It's the car that never failed them, that held each of them wounded at one point or another and always got them to their destinations in one piece.

His fingers are barely brushing over the hood of the car when he hears a man clear his throat from behind him. He turns around, and his jaw almost drops in shock at what he's seeing.

It's Sam.

John may have been a shitty parent, but he'll recognise his boys anywhere. Sam looks so different than he'd last seen him when he'd sold his soul to save Dean's life — older, tired-looking, better built… and… _what has the kid done to his hair?_ And John knows, for sure, that this is his son. The son he never had a chance to explain himself to. The son he'd never really known because his work had been more important than giving the kid a decent childhood. Something that he had failed at, and Dean had to step in for.

He almost expects Sam to greet him. But he knows better. He puts up his hands in surrender, showing that he means no harm, when Sam immediately drops the supplies in his hand and pulls out a gun.

"What do you want?" Sam asks; there's nothing but pure hate in his voice and it shocks John.

John purses his lips, wondering how to explain it to his son without getting shot in the head.

"Sammy..."

"Don't you call me that, you bastard!"

John nods, stepping away, knowing he's treading a minefield here. "Okay. I won't call you that. I know how bad this looks, son. But it's me. I promise you, it is me."

Sam hesitates for a few seconds, but doesn't lower the gun. "My father is dead."

John nods again. "Yes. Until yesterday, I would have said that to myself too, Sam. But it's me, it's _really_ me."

John's hope falls as Sam's expression remains unchanged, disbelief etching every inch of his features. Of course Sam doesn't believe him. How many monsters out there could claim exactly that? John looks away for a second, trying to think of how to prove it to him and that's when he realises he's made a mistake.

You never turn your back on anything you don't trust.

The last thing John sees is the asphalt coming closer and closer to his face as blinding pain shoots through his left temple and black creeps out of the corner of his eyes to obscure his vision.

**~o~**

_"Is it really him?"_

_"I don't know."_

John's feet are scraping against… _something_ , as a strong pair of hands hold him by the armpits, dragging him through somewhere. Lights dim and brighten in the world beyond his eyelids, but John can't get himself to open his eyes.

He feels himself drift off again as he listens to another part of the bizarre conversation.

_"It's not the angels, Sam, I'd have felt the lingering grace."_

_"Who is it then, Cas? I don't—"_ a sigh. _"Crowley?"_

_"He has no motives."_

There is a pause. _"I guess we'll just have to ask… well, my dad, then…"_

**~o~**

Cold water is the next thing he feels. The chill of it bites, as a wave of wetness hits his face. Spluttering and coughing, John blinks against the pounding in his head to see Sam sitting on a small stool in a corner of the room and an unfamiliar man holding an empty metal bucket. Sam's companion has striking blue eyes and black hair, and is wearing what appears to be a tan coloured trench-coat over a white shirt and black suit pants.

John also realises that his hands are cuffed to a steel chair. He relaxes and doesn't even try to fight, knowing it wouldn't work anyway.

His gaze roams around the room to see chains dangling on the walls with cuffs attached to them. There are demon traps and other sigils carved into them. John shudders involuntarily. Where the hell is he? Some sort of torture dungeon? What's the matter with his boys? Have they started learning how to torture?

When John looks down, he realizes that his chair is set in the middle of a large demon trap and that the cuffs on his own hands have similar sigils carved into them too. The room is dark and grey with just one bulb of light which hangs above him, giving him the feel of being in a very old interrogation room.

As he looks back up, the trench-coated man pulls out a flask and sprays some water on John. He then uses a silver knife to make a small cut on John's hand, ignoring the hiss of pain. The man is testing John — finding out if he's human. John feels his chest inflate. He's taught his boys well, although he has no clue why Sam has a guy hired for this stuff. Where'd they get all the money anyway?

"It's really him, Sam," the blue-eyed stranger says suddenly, in a very gravelly voice.

John squints at his son, who still seems uncertain. Sam gets up tentatively from his place and walks over to John with the stool in hand before setting it in front of him and sitting on it. He is staring at John now, utter disbelief written on his face.

"Convinced?" John croaks out. He's still proud of Sam, but a side of his mind also wants Sam to just understand and hear him out.

"No," Sam answers. John notices for the first time that Sam's voice sounds different too — although only slightly. At twenty-three, Sammy had sounded like a young man. Now, he's all grown up, sceptical, with lines on his face, and maturity and experience shining through every angle. Sammy grew up a lot—without him.

Sam, ignoring John's scrutiny, looks to the unknown man in the room. "Do it, Cas."

John frowns at the statement. "Do _what_?" he asks with trepidation. The man, 'Cas,' looks hesitantly at Sam before proceeding towards John.

"What are you—?" John is cut off as a wad of folded cloth is shoved into his mouth.

He can see an apologetic look on Cas's face as the man says, "Bite down on that. It'll help a little."

Before John can even try and understand what is going on, Cas plunges his hand into the centre of his chest and John feels unimaginable pain. There are white hot rods, shoved into him over and over and then, a block of ice, and the rods again… then a poker drilling through him, tearing at his chest…

He yells in anguish, biting down on the cloth so hard he feels like his jaw might break any second.

And just when he feels he can't take it anymore, the pain in gone and he's gasping, torrents of sweat flowing down his face as he tries to regain his bearings. He spits out the cloth and looks up at Sam, wondering if he'll ever believe him.

"Well?" Sam asks, turning to Cas.

Cas nods. "It's him."

Sam looks flabbergasted. "But...how...?"

"I can explain," John gasps, still trying to overcome the lingering ache in his chest.

Sam looks sceptical. "I don't believe this," he mutters. He gets up, takes a key out of his pocket and hands it to Cas.

"Free him," he says before walking out.

John closes his eyes and groans with the fresh pain pounding in his head, thanks to whatever the stranger did to him. He slowly opens them to see Cas occupying the stool Sam had been on and staring at him with a look of almost curiosity on his face.

"You really are John Winchester," says Cas.

"Yup," John answers.

They sit in silence for a few seconds until John can't take it anymore. "What are you?" he asks. He knows that no ordinary human being would have been able to make his hand go through someone's body like that. In fact, that's what demons and spirits do, but they always killed. Why didn't this entity's action kill John?

"I'm an angel," Cas answers, his sharp voice cutting through John's thoughts. John blinks. _Angels?_ Impossible.

John can't decide whether the man is joking or not, so he settles for believing him. For now. He will get the whole story later. He's just not in the mood for anything except getting out of the handcuffs and chains and explaining himself. So he turns his eyes to the 'angel'.

"Can you get these off?" he requests, wary.

Cas nods and in a few seconds, John is free. He massages his aching wrists and leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees with his face in his hands.

"Can I ask you something?" John questions in a muffled voice.

"Yes."

"What the hell did you do to me?"

Cas smiles a little. "I felt your soul," he says simply.

John just stares at the angel. _This just keeps getting weirder and weirder,_ he thinks.

"Can _I_ ask you something?" says Cas.

John nods, still trying to figure out the man in front of him.

"How are you alive?" Cas asks.

John sighs. "Honestly? I don't know. I woke up to find myself tied to a chair, just like this one, by an old Chinese shaman who wanted my blood. I managed to escape and track the boys, and I ended up here."

Cas squints, tilting his head to the side and he seems to analyse the man in front of him. "Why did the shaman want your blood?"

John reaches inside his coat pocket and frowns. He gets more and more anxious as he searches the rest of his pockets in his coat and pants but doesn't find what he's looking for.

"Looking for this?" Sam asks as he walks in, holding out a small glass vial. The bottle is slightly bigger than John's hand and is made of tinted black glass. Ancient sigils cover the outside, carved into the material. They stand out stark white against the slight glow of the soul trapped in it, illuminating the inside of the bottle. The lid is golden and it seems to be attached to the vessel, as though a continuous part of it. On top of the lid, yet another sigil is carved and painted over in deep red.

"Be careful with that, Sam," John warns.

"Why? What's in it?" Sam asks, frowning.

"The shaman that brought me back? His son is trapped in there. It used to be in my storage locker but he must have got hold of it somehow. It had taken me and four other hunters to bind the son into this bottle." John stops, spotting the glare Sam's giving him. When no one speaks, John continues.

"He was wreaking havoc over towns, killing for the pleasure of it and apparently, I seem to have pissed off the dad. He resurrected me because my blood is what completely seals this thing," John explains, holding his hand out for the bottle.

Sam still doesn't look convinced and John's groans in exasperation. "I don't know how else to convince you it's me, Sam. But I'm not lying. You have to believe me."

Sam nods thoughtfully as he scrutinizes the vial for a few seconds, turning it over and over between his fingers before finally handing it to John.

"I guess I believe you, then. We'll…we'll check this out. Since you took the one thing this shaman brought you to life for, there's no doubt he'll come after you. We'll do something," Sam says.

John agrees. He looks properly at his son and realises that Sam has bags under his eyes, is dishevelled, and seems to be edgy. Well… he did look tired even before he knocked John out. He probably got back from a hunt and didn't sleep. At least, John hopes that it's as simple as that. But instinct tells him that something huge has happened here.

"You really grew out your hair, didn't you?" John asks after a moment of silence, trying to start out with light conversation.

Sam doesn't exactly bite. He just snorts. "Wow, Dad. After all that's happened, _that's_ what you notice?"

John shrugs. "Hey, it's not every day that you get to come back to life and see your boys."

Sam chuckles. There is an awkward silence between them. They never really got on well when John was alive and he can still feel the tension in the air.

"So, where's Dean?" John asks.

Sam stiffens slightly, as though he doesn't want to reveal Dean's whereabouts, or even talk about Dean. A flurry of fatherly thoughts and worries begin to stream in and out of John's mind, but he is cut off by someone.

"Here," says a voice from the entrance. It's familiar, and John knows that it belongs to Dean, although his voice seems so much more gravelly and tired than John remembers. It's as if Dean is struggling to speak again. Like… after Mary.

John's heart breaks. So something big did happen. Maybe more than one big thing — he doesn't know, but he will find out. Pulse starting to quicken, John looks around Sam's shoulder to see Cas supporting Dean while they walk into the room.

And Dean… _oh God_ , John has to hold back a gasp. Dean looks… _sick_. His clothes are hanging loose from a body that John had known to be well-built. His eyes are a muted green — they've lost all their shine. He has more lines on his face than John can count. And his expression is wary, although his face does split into a tired grin at the sight of John.

"Hey, Dad."

John feels relief through the sadness. His boys are alive, albeit slightly worse for the wear. John frowns as he eyes the bruises on Dean's hands, the cuts on his face and the way he's limping.

"What happened to you?" he asks Dean, his voice coming out more worried than he expected. "Are you sick, son?"

Dean becomes rigid and avoids eye contact with his father. John is taken aback when Sam cuts in with a sharp tone. "He's not sick, and there's nothing here you need to know right now. Okay, how about you and I get going and we figure out how to get rid of this problem? Cas can stay here with Dean."

John's frown deepens even further. "And Dean is okay with not coming?" Because Dean had come hunting with pneumonia once, and another time, had chased down a werewolf despite having a bullet wound in his leg from just two days before. So if Dean is still the same…

"No." Sam says stubbornly, although Dean is glaring from behind him. "Dean needs his rest—" he is cut off abruptly by his brother.

"Dude, if you think you're just gonna leave me here, you've gotta be stupid. I'm coming with, whether you like it or not," Dean states.

Sam looks almost helpless as he shakes his head at his brother. "Dean, you almost _died_. This could be dangerous—"

"That's exactly why I'm not letting you and Dad go out there alone again," Dean argues, slightly unsteady on his feet as he leans into Castiel.

"But, Dean—"

"Enough, Sam. I said I'm coming with you and that's final."

And yes, John decides, he still knows his sons pretty well.

 


	3. Aura

 

**Two: Aura**

 

**_Sam_ **

It's not like staring at the paper is going to yield any results, and Sam knows that, but he continues to look at the shaman's letter. John settles himself on the chair opposite to Sam's. It isn't until his father leans forward, hands on the table and fingers interlocked, that Sam puts the paper down, and slides it towards John.

"What is it?" John asks, squinting at it. "This is—"

"Ancient Chinese, according to Cas," Sam replies. "Well, fits anyway, since we're dealing with a Chinese shaman." He's read the names in his father's journal. The shaman is called Gan Shu Ning and the son, Shen Bin Ning.

John cocks an eyebrow at Sam as he fingers the thick paper. "So this Cas… he knows this stuff?"

"He can't decipher it," Sam says, and doesn't add the _anymore_ to it, because he doesn't need his dad butting in. "But he knows most things." Sam grins fondly as he thinks of Cas, who knows about almost everything, but still has trouble picking up on human stuff.

_"Dean, I don't think we have any of those protective rubber covers for our—"_

_" **Condoms** , Cas."_

_"Oh, I forgot what they were called. Sorry."_

Sam hadn't needed any of that information, but he'd known. Dean and Cas eye-fuck much more than they know. And he remembers. He remembers when Dean first told him (flustered, a little happy), that he and Cas were "kinda together". Sam had laughed at Dean for making it sound like a high school romance.

Then he'd watched "kinda together" grow into something meaningful — something that didn't surprise Sam. And he's happy — so happy for what Dean has in his life.

"So, is this… _Cas_ trustworthy?" John asks suddenly, taking Sam out of his reverie.

" _Castiel_ ," Sam replies. _Cas_ is more personal now — more his and Dean's than anyone else's. No one else gets to call him that.

"Yeah. He's family," he says to John.

"Family?" John's eyes are wide. "You boys seem to be pretty… _accepting_. To the supernatural, I mean."

Sam snorts. His dad doesn't know half of it. And he doesn't know Cas and shouldn't pretend to know him either. But he pushes his sudden irritation back. Dean will get upset if they fight.

"Family doesn't end with blood," he says. Then, sadder, he adds, "Bobby said that once."

John is aware that Bobby is dead. He'd brought up the topic in the car, on their way here and Sam had told him. But Sam didn't like the sympathy in his father's eyes when John had discovered that his boys were on their own, because they aren't. They have Cas. They have Charlie. They'd had Kevin—

Sam stops himself from thinking about Kevin. That part will never stop being a nightmare. And knowing that Dean has had it worse, Sam wishes his brother would let him in and talk to him. But then again, he reckons that he, of all people should be more understanding of Dean's reluctance to talk. He, after all, has never told Dean everything about himself.

"An angel's useful, though," John quips suddenly. "For your hunts."

A burst of light flickers before Sam's eyes, and is gone the next moment. He blinks and looks incredulously at his father, not believing what he just said. John won't change. Sam should know that.

The irritation boils over. " _That's_ what comes to your mind first, when you get to know that Cas is an angel? _Hunting_?"

"Why are you friends with him, then? Why do you trust him?"

Sam grits his teeth, and then relaxes a little so he can answer. And then he's talking. Talking more than he intended to. "Oh, I don't know, Dad. Maybe because he's given his life for us more than once. Maybe because we really like him. Maybe because he literally pulled Dean out of Hell and took my psychosis for himself when I was dying—"

" _Psychosis_?"

"Things have changed," says Sam, looking into his father's eyes. "You left, telling Dean that he either had to save me or kill me. What do you think happened then?" John looks speechless as Sam continues, in a lower voice. "You should have just asked him to kill me."

His father opens and shuts his mouth, and then sighs. "You've changed, Sammy."

Sam snorts. "Oh, so you noticed _something_ beyond the hair." _You should see my new scars. That place where Jake stabbed me. You should see Cas's handprint on Dean's shoulder. You should see the blemishes on our souls from Hell._

"You had a sort of — innocence, you know," John replies to Sam, oblivious to his thought-process. "Different from me and Dean. You were always… you were innocent — even when you weren't a kid anymore. You were the most human… the most… you were always like…" he swallows, "like Mary. God knows, it was what kept me and Dean sane sometimes."

Sam looks away, thinking of how his father and brother never got over the death of his mother. After so many years, after losing so many people, it still hurts. But this thing, what his father said just now, is new. He wasn't aware of that role he'd played in his father's and big brother's life. And that too, after it's been proven that Sam is a lot like John, and not so much _innocent_ as _vengeful bastard_.

"I lost all my puppy fat, huh?" he asks blandly. _But I was never innocent, Dad. I was the most unclean. The most impure. It was always Dean who was the best amongst us. Dean was the brightest, the most caring; the most nurturing. You and I are the same category of stubborn bastards._

Sam licks his lip. "Well, I grew up, you know. I had to. I didn't always have Dean like you think. I didn't have a family to fall back upon sometimes and I was on my own." _And I made the worst mistakes ever. I am a stupid son of a bitch._

"Why wasn't Dean there?"

Sam raises an eyebrow. "You think you're the only one here who's back from the dead?" He pauses. "You should know, that if we were an iota of "normal", I'd have been dead at twenty-three and Dean would have gone at twenty-seven. But we kept coming back. Kept screwing up."

"And you sorted it." For the first time, Sam sees the faith in his father's eyes.

He nods. "Yeah. The best that we could."

"And?"

"And?" Sam shrugs, "Things got messed up, okay?" _So messed up, you have no idea._

"Can you tell me?"

He shakes his head. "No." _Don't want you to judge Dean. You can judge me all you want, but not him. So I won't tell you._

"Dean was in Hell?"

"Yeah, we've both had a trip each," says Sam. "Hell, Heaven, Purgatory… the whole package."

"And?" John repeats.

"And… nothing." Sam looks up at his father, anger boiling in his stomach. "You really messed Dean up, you know that? If – if you hadn't…" he pauses, as everything he's said to Dean before Dean's possession comes back to him. And in his mind's eye, he's killing Kevin again (hand on Kevin's forehead, Kevin's eyes glowing, burning out and the bloodcurdling, horrified scream).

If Dean hadn't had it hotwired in him to save Sam — if Dean could let Sam go like a regular person, they wouldn't be here.

"What happened to Dean?" John asks him earnestly. "Why is he hurt?"

"None of your business," Sam says to him. _You would ask me why I didn't just go ahead and kill him when he was possessed instead of looking for a way to get Abaddon out without killing him. You wouldn't understand, and I don't want you to._

"And it's that… _Castiel's_ business?" John asks, his voice full of dislike for Sam's friend.

"Cas saved Dean's life, so yeah."

"And what were _you_ doing? Why couldn't you be there for your brother? Why did someone else have to pull him out of Hell? Why is there an _angel_ with the responsibility of saving his life?"

Sam blinks at John, as he tries to process what he's just heard. The whole of last few years comes back to him, with Dean blaming him for everything, starting with Ruby, and the demon blood, and then Amelia and the dog; and he knows he's let Dean down. And now, here he sits with his father, who is back from the dead, and has caught on in less than a day. And John is right. So right. Sam was always there, but he's never been the one to save Dean.

He remembers the church, remembers the overwhelming emotions, and something moves in his chest. Sam gets up from his place. He cannot sit and ponder about this now. He will get weak and right now, he can't afford be weak. He can't take his father's words harshly, because, _fuck him_ , what does John even know?

But everybody knows of how he's let Dean down, all these years.

"Where are you going?" John asks, as Sam begins to leave the room.

 _Somewhere that is not here_.

He doesn't answer — just walks on. He has to be strong for Dean. He can't let him down another time.

**~o~**

Castiel emerges from Dean's room and Sam realises where his feet automatically carried him. He looks into Castiel's exceptionally sad blue eyes, and knows immediately that Dean is having a rough time. But Dean's always had a rough time and Sam's always been useless.

Castiel smiles wanly. "I don't think he wants either of us by his side."

"He yelled?" Sam guesses. Dean does that a lot these days.

"Yeah." Castiel's shoulders droop. "He's in a lot of pain, Sam."

Sam nods. "I know." He pauses, runs a hand through his hair. "I just – I think I'll see if he's up to eating anything." It's past midnight, and not the right time to eat, but Sam will take whatever he gets. There needs to be some food inside of Dean's system.

"He's angry," Castiel says.

"He will be," Sam replies. "For a while. It's nothing personal. But we need to help him. And he can't stop eating."

Because, God knows, Dean has whittled away to a shadow of what he was, and it's alarming how little he's eaten since they rescued him. Sam can see all the sharp edges and angles on his brother's face now. Dean's clothes are loose for him and he looks older than his thirty-seven years. His eyes have sunk from decreased nutrient and water intake. He's much weaker, and not just because of his injuries.

Sam remembers the diner from a few hours ago. It was one of those greasy places that Dean would've liked on a regular day, and it boasted the most delicious cheeseburgers in town. Sam himself had placed an order for a burger and after much coaxing, Dean had too. When the food had come, Dean had refused to eat.

_Sam stared at his brother's untouched burger, feeling Castiel's worried eyes on it as well. He was halfway through his own meal, and his stomach was sighing happily for the first time in ages. Sam had had trouble eating a decent meal ever since his brother went missing, and finding Dean again had helped his appetite, although, watching his brother now, Sam didn't think it would stay that way for him either._

_"Hey," Sam said to his brother, as John looked up from his own food. "You should try the burger."_

_Dean nodded, and wiped a hand down his face. He pushed the plate away. "Not hungry," he mumbled. He'd been saying that a lot and Sam had been trying and trying but Dean just didn't listen._

_Sam prodded at the French fries. "Fries? They're great. Just the way you like them."_

_"No."_

_"Dean—"_

_(Dean, Dean. Please)._

_"Just leave me alone, will you?"_

_There was a beat of silence, and then Castiel spoke up. "Eat for me?"_

_It was a simple request, and Sam ignored the confusion on his father's face as Dean sighed, picked up the burger, and took a reluctant bite. His jaws worked. Chewed laboriously. But then he stopped, swallowed with difficulty, and grimaced. Shook his head and put the burger down and Sam should have known it would be like this but he expected — always expected._

_Dean made to get up. "I'll be in the car."_

_Sam placed a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. "For us, Dean. Please." It felt like a childish request. A game. But it was not like that. Sam wished it was — because at least the heaviness at the pit of his stomach wouldn't have been there._

_Hesitantly, Dean sat back down and took another bite. "It's – it's. I don't like it," he mumbled._

_Sam looked up at Castiel, who seemed forlorn and sad. He turned back to Dean and bumped shoulders with his brother. "Hey."_

_(We're here for you. Talk to us)._

_Dean swallowed, clutched at the table with shaky hands, his face pale. Sam tilted his head down. "You okay?" No, Dean was not okay, and Sam didn't know why he said that but he just needed something — something to go along with so he could help Dean._

_His brother, however, blanched more and stood up abruptly, making his way swiftly towards the restrooms. Sam and Cas waited a few moments before getting up simultaneously and following Dean._

_(There are two of us for you, Dean. We're here, we're here)._

_There was only one stall that was occupied and Sam could see Dean's boots from under the door as Dean retched and retched, apparently unable to expel anything. Sam looked at Castiel worriedly and both of them wanted to burst in and help Dean, but they knew that it was probably best to wait where they were. When Dean emerged, his eyes were red-rimmed and his face was sweaty, but he refused to talk. He shouldered his way past Sam and quietly exited the bathroom, making his way to the Impala and sitting on its hood until the rest of his family finished dinner._

Sam rubs his eyes as he shakes himself out of the memory. Tiny lights scatter before him, disturbing his vision — thousands of fairy-like apparitions attacking his retina. He shakes his head and sighs because it feels like he's developing a migraine. He's not had a migraine in ages and hopefully, this one won't be too bad. Unfortunately, he can't tell how it's going to be until the aura passes.

However, he has other things to worry about. He looks at the closed door before him, wondering if Dean will take it badly if he enters. He just wants to show Dean the chit of paper that Gan has sent them — it's a new clue, all right, although it's not much. Dean will be even more pissed if he's kept out of this.

So Sam knocks once, and enters.

Dean is sitting up on his sleeping bag, blinking owlishly at the grimy window, watching the rain as it trickles down the glass, pattering against the roof. He turns to Sam and ignores him, his eyes going back to the rain. He looks dazed… drugged, and Sam quietly sits on the floor, a little away from Dean, waiting for him to decide to give Sam his attention.

Moments pass in silence. Sam observes his brother, knowing how much Dean's always liked rain, and wonders if he still likes it. Wonders if Abaddon ruined that for Dean too. Because they've had little in their lives to make them happy and Sam knows that he and Cas make Dean happy, but this isn't enough. Not nearly enough. They need more. So much more. The small things in life can sustain you — little drops of happiness—but there's not much of that in their lives. There's nothing.

Sam's memory goes back to another terrible time, but a time when they were still better off than now because they'd always had the hope. It's not like they don't hope anymore. It's a bastard emotion, it is. It never completely goes away. There's always a corner of your mind — a fucked-up part of your brain—that hopes, and okay, maybe you shouldn't allow it to, but what can you do when you're a fuck-up yourself and you keep hoping? Keep wanting more? How do you stop yourself?

But Sam's mind still rolls back. Still reminds him of that part of his life when everything was fucked up, and he knows that was a piece of cake compared to this.

This one time, when Dean had called him 'Wammy,' Sam still finds funny. There are few things that Dean says that make Sam laugh, rather than annoying him. Maybe he should stop being annoyed with Dean. Maybe he should listen more. He's not been paying enough attention. Next time… next time.

_Dean smiled goofily as he… well, tried his best to **strut** towards the Impala but stumbled on his way there. Sam's reflexes went on high-alert and he stepped forward, gripped Dean's arm, and pulled him back with an almighty lurch, stopping him from face-planting onto the asphalt. Dean grumbled, but Sam ignored him._

_"Careful," he said, as he opened the passenger side door and put a hand atop Dean's head, lowering his loopy older brother into the car. He smirked in amusement as Dean let out what was most definitely a giggle. This was going to be fun._

_Hurrying over to the driver's side, Sam slid in and placed his hands on the steering, going for the ignition._

_"Hey!" Dean let out an indignant yell. "Why a'you divin m'bby?" he asked, sounding personally offended. It didn't help that Dean had gauze stuffed on the inside of his mouth because of the wisdom tooth he'd just got removed._

_Sam tried not to laugh at the pout on Dean's face before saying, "In the state you're in, you'd crash the car before we even got out of the parking lot. So shut up and let me drive."_

_Dean pouted even more and crossed his arms in visible annoyance, muttering under his breath in all his gauzy glory._

_Sam stifled a laugh. "Man, this is gonna be a long day."_

**o**

_Sam groaned as he shut the motel room door behind himself and navigated a very teary-eyed Dean towards the bed at the farthest end of the room. Dean sat down and sniffled, eyelashes turned down to the floor and green eyes sad. It reminded Sam of an overgrown child._

_Well, that was his brother even when he was not loopy anyway._

_In the few minutes that had taken them to drive up to the motel, Sam had learned that a loopy Dean was a very amused and giggly Dean, and that he underwent severe age regression under the influence of drugs. Typical._

_"Let me see," Sam sighed, as he knelt down in front of Dean's bed and peeked at the left side of Dean's forehead. Dean had managed to get himself out of the car without bumping his head onto the door frame, but he did walk into a wall head first. Still stoned, he'd mistaken the wall for their motel room door. And then he had bawled like a baby._

_Dean looked at him questioningly as he examined Dean's head for injuries. Sam finished prodding and sat back on his haunches. "It's fine," he said, eyeing the small, barely visible, scratch. "You'll live."_

_"You shu'?"_

_Sam nodded and smiled when Dean nodded along with him. Sam patted Dean's thigh and got to his feet, wondering how Dean would feel when he finally came to his senses. It was highly entertaining to see his brother with his guard down. Sam walked over the small table in the room and got his laptop before situating himself on the other bed in the room. He looked over at Dean to see that he'd propped himself up against the headboard, feet laid out in front of him, staring dead ahead towards the opposite wall while absentmindedly touching the numb spot on his jaw._

_"Quit it, Dean," Sam scolded as he reached over and pulled away Dean's hand._

_Dean gave Sam a grumpy look but obeyed, resorting to playing with the hem of his shirt. Sam shook his head and went back to his research. Sam spent every spare moment in front of his laptop, looking for a way to get Dean out of his deal. There was no way he'd let his brother go to Hell._

_The next few minutes passed with Sam acting like a parent, reprimanding Dean and pulling his hands away whenever Dean kept touching the numb spot on his jaw or whenever Dean tried to remove the gauze in his mouth. Finally, Dean tried to spit out the gauze, and Sam had had it._

_"Dean! For the love of – STOP! If you try to remove it one more time, I swear I will punch you," he snapped, putting the laptop aside and standing up from his bed._

_Dean looked taken aback before he nodded slowly, lip trembling._

_Sam ran a hand over his face, and then sat on Dean's bed. "Dude, please. Don't do this."_

_Dean narrowed his eyes at Sam and looked away. Sam sighed._

_"Okay, um, I'm sorry. If you manage to keep your hands to yourself for the next few hours until it's time to remove your gauze, I'll get you an ice cream."_

_Sam worked hard to keep the amusement off his face as Dean lit up in childlike happiness. And it kind of broke Sam's heart. He wished for the millionth time that they didn't have to live this kind of a life. Dean deserved to be happy, carefree and living a normal life. Not waiting for his ticket to hell to come due in a few months._

_The next hour was interesting. At times, Dean would suddenly start humming out some classic rock and it would take a while before he'd shut up. Other times, he'd ask the most innocent of questions and Sam's resolve would waver, make it hard for him to be annoyed with his brother. The most heart-breaking had been when Dean had asked in a very low tone, "D'you think Dad ever loved me?"_

_It just went to show how much Dean thought of himself. How much he relied on his family's support. Sam for one knew John had loved Dean. A lot more than he'd ever loved Sam._

_He'd told Dean exactly that. "Yeah, Dean. Of course."_

_Dean had smiled before saying, "He loved you too, Shammy."_

_Two hours after they'd gotten back from the dentist's, Dean called out Sam's name for the umpteenth time, making him want to tear his hair out. Usually when one got his wisdom tooth removed, one was supposed to shut the fuck up and not torture his brother, but Dean didn't seem to want to follow that little rule of life._

_He had taken to calling Sam's name over and over until Sam finally looked at him. He'd then grin and say 'Hi' before going back to playing with some part of his clothing. It was driving Sam nuts. He knew it wasn't long before the pain meds wore off. But until then he'd just have to muscle through it._

_Sam glanced at his watch and made a mental note to remove Dean's gauze in a few minutes and persuade him to keep an ice pack on his cheek to prevent any swelling. Since the motel was close to the dentist's, the doctor had recommended keeping the gauze in for a while. Just as he contemplated pouring himself some whiskey, his brother moved in his bed._

_"Sham," Dean whined._

**_Ignore_ ** _, Sam thought to himself, going over to the whiskey bottle and checking to see if there was a clean glass around._

_"Sham."_

_(Ignore). He washed the glass anyway._

_"Sham."_

_(Ignore it)._

_"WAMMYY!"_

_It took Sam a moment to register that. **Wammy**. Sammy. His lips twitched and he looked over at Dean who grinned widely, said 'hi', and went back to fiddling with his clothing while looking around the room. _

_And Sam poured himself the whiskey and laughed. He laughed at Dean's bewildered expression, at 'Shammy' and 'Sham' and 'Wammy' and their lives and the deal and the fact that he was going to be alone, so alone, but this was Dean — the brother he had grown up with, who was his family, and the only support he had right now and their lives were so screwed up, but when was it ever that simple?_

_And now, this one wisdom tooth, a vestigial tooth which required removing — and this… this day, it had been such a change in his routine, and Sam laughed more, chest heaving, tears streaming down his face, Dean grinning right along, and then he couldn't anymore. So he swallowed down the whiskey, and shut himself in the bathroom, slumping against the tub with his head in his hands and thinking of everything — and what was he supposed to do? What was he supposed to do?_

_An hour or so more went by with Dean sleeping, pillows propping him up against the headboard. After Sam had steadied his breaths in the bathroom, he had come back out and downright bribed his brother with a future of two tubs of ice cream to get him to follow his orders. It took a lot tolerance on Sam's part to get Dean to drink up some Gatorade and have some soup to fill his empty stomach. Sam removed the gauze before that, and that had been a feat in itself since Dean had found it fun to try and bite Sam's fingers during the process. And the gauze, saturated with saliva and blood, had been gross, thank you very much._

_Sam sighed as he lay down on his own bed after cleaning up. He was pretty sure Dean wouldn't recall much of today, but it had been quite entertaining, nonetheless. Sam had definitely thought to record a few choice moments on his phone for blackmail later._

_He smiled to himself as Dean's light snores filled the room._

_Even after all they were facing right now, he was glad for today. Glad that Dean had smiled. Glad that it wasn't about a hunt or Hell, just for a few hours. He made a promise to himself, to Dean, and he'd work his damnedest to keep it. He wouldn't let his brother fall. He knew how to catch Dean now._

_"I'll get you out of this, Dean. I won't let you down."_

**~o~**

"So you here for day dreamin', or are you actually going to say something?"

Sam's been staring at the rain along with Dean. The silver-white of the moon seems to be streaking the water drops as they slip down dirty glass. Like a canvas being painted. Sam had been briefly interested in canvas painting when he was eight; Dean had asked him if he was gay.

 _Look who's gay for Cas now, Dean_.

"Hey," Dean says again.

More light flashes before Sam's eyes ( _blink, blink. Spark, spark_ ).

He clears his throat. "How're you doing, man?"

His brother smiles: not a shit-eating grin, just a wan smile, a bare movement of Dean's facial muscles. Dean's still the guy who grinned the widest after selling his soul for Sam. Dean knew how to smile. Through the pleasure, through the pain. And now he's forgotten. Abaddon stole too much.

"Peachy," Dean whispers. Something urges Sam to hug him. But he stays the way he is.

"So…" Sam produces the envelope and the chit. "Gan sent this."

"Gan… the father," Dean says, remembering the name. "Right." He takes it, hands trembling, and Sam's stomach falls two floors. He hadn't noticed the tremors before. How much more has he ignored?

"Ancient Chinese," Sam says, before Dean can ask. The rain patters. Dean squints. Two more lights flash before Sam's eyes and he rubs his forehead.

"You okay?" Dean mutters, hardly looking up from his scrutiny of the characters.

Dean's always known. Always been in sync. Sam's not had a migraine in maybe a year but Dean can always sense that Sam's not feeling okay. But Sam — Sam still uses his own knowledge of Dean to hurt him — he told Dean he won't save him if he were dying because he wanted to make Dean feel _horrible_. And Dean forgives. Forgives every time. And Sam just gets pissed.

Why can't Dean get the one thing that Sam wants him to understand the most?

Sam rips himself away from the thoughts swirling inside of him. "'M good," he lies. Watches Dean for a while more, and takes the chit from his brother. Their conversation is over. No _Dean, will you tell me what happened? Will you let me help? Can we talk about this without you pushing me away by calling it girly?_

Someone knocks at the door. Sam turns around and Dean mumbles a "come in." The door opens — creaks, to prove that they're in CreepyHouse101— and John enters, his five o'clock shadow looking more pronounced in the dimness. Sam knows that classic, determined, pre-hunt expression.

"Hey, Dad." Sam turns to see Dean, already sitting up straight, bracing himself to get up.

John manages a smile. "You doing better, son?"

"Fine," Dean waves, looking indifferent. Dean and his masks. Sam sits straighter too. No way are they hunting now. Dean needs food. He needs his sleep. John knows something is wrong, and yet, he's got that look…

John didn't care when Dean had a massive-enough heart attack to make him terminal. Why should he now?

"What's up?" Dean asks again.

"I was just going to tell you that I'm going to go up to the shaman's cottage to explore."

_What?_

Sam raises an eyebrow. "You serious?"

"I need something," John says. "Something to help me know where to go when we attack."

A heartbeat. Sam understands that John means he's going to do this alone. But he's not sure Dean does. And then—

"I'll come with."

"Dean, no," Sam retorts. _Because seriously, Dean? When you're so tired?_

The green of Dean's eyes seems to drain. He snorts, and looks at the window, at the paint-like raindrops. "You gonna tell me what to do, Sammy? Gonna stop me if I don't listen?"

It sounds vaguely familiar to Sam. From another time. Another, horrifying time. And up until now, he mostly suspected what had happened to Dean. But now he knows.

(An echo from the Cage: _You're my bitch, Sam. You will listen to me_ ).

Sam feels like he's choking (something's stuck in his throat). He swallows, bites the inside of his cheek, and speaks. "S-Sorry…"

Dean looks almost apologetic. Sam helps him stand up, while Cas enters the room. Sam notices a shadow of dislike pass over his father's face, and then Dean does too.

It's quiet, other than the pitter-patter of rain, until Castiel walks over to Dean. Quiet when John's eyes trail Cas all the way. Quiet when Dean moves ahead and glances fondly at Castiel. And then he looks proud. Proud and… well, happy, as he smiles at his dumbstruck father.

"Cas is my boyfriend, Dad."

 


	4. Hidden Reality

**Three: Hidden Reality**

 

**_John_ **

Did he hear right? John looks between his son and the man — no — _angel_ that he calls his 'boyfriend'.

"What?" John finally manages to say.

He watches as Castiel looks towards Dean, surprised. Castiel probably wasn't expecting the revelation either.

"Cas and I are together," Dean says. His hand trembles, moves towards the angel, and John wonders why Dean is so reluctant. Castiel offers Dean his hand, but Dean hesitates, and when the angel's face falls, he settles for grasping Castiel's sleeve between two fingers.

John frowns. He doesn't know how to react, but, for the first time in the few hours he's been here, he actually sees a little light in his son's eyes.

"But he's..." John starts and trails off, not knowing what exactly to say.

And he realises that not completing his thought is a big mistake. Dean lets go of Castiel and shifts his position so that he's standing in front of the angel. John feels intimidated as Dean stares him down, glaring daggers.

It's like he can feel those daggers pierce his body.

"I don't care what he is or what you think, Dad. This isn't up for discussion. If you're gonna be around us, you've just gotta accept it. Things have changed, whether you like it or not," Dean snaps, as he staggers towards a wall and leans against it, as if standing is becoming a little too hard for him.

And for the millionth time since he's been here, John wonders what happened to Dean, to his boys.

He watches, dumbstruck at the sudden hostility, as Dean gives him one last glowering look before walking out the door with Castiel supporting him. Sighing to himself, he looks at Sam and is taken aback by the look of anger on his younger son's face.

"It's been years since I've seen him genuinely happy with someone," Sam says. "Don't you dare spoil this for him."

John can't believe his ears. It's not that he has a problem with his son liking a man, it's more of his son liking an angel, a supernatural being. As far as John knows, if it's not human, it's not to be trusted.

"Spoil this for him? That is an _angel._ How can he trust that... _thing_?" John argues.

"Enough, Dad!" Sam snaps. "You weren't here! I _told_ you; Cas has helped us out of some pretty fucked up situations. And like it or not, he's family."

"But how—?"

"You don't know him like we do, Dad! You were dead," Sam states. "How many times do I have to say this? We've been through a lot of _shit_. So don't go questioning who we should and shouldn't trust. And hear this; if you go all drill sergeant and mess Dean up even more than you already have, I swear to you, I will forget that you're my father. So. Don't. You. Dare."

John gapes as Sam stomps out of the door after his friend and his brother.

If he heard right, Sam threatened to beat him up if he said anything regarding Dean and Castiel.

John groans as he reluctantly trudges towards the exit. He knows better than to go against his son's words. Both his boys are more than capable of beating him to a pulp and he isn't eager for it, really.

He avoids eye contact as he slides into the passenger seat of the Impala. Sam starts up the car and glances worriedly at Dean and Cas, who are seated at the back.

 _Things are definitely a lot different than they used to be_ , John thinks to himself.

"This is gonna be a long day," he mutters.

**~o~**

**_Sam_ **

The drive to the shaman's lair is filled with tense silence. None of the occupants of the car utter a single word until they reach their desired destination.

Sam squints through the windshield as he stops the car a few feet away from what seems to be a thin trail starting at the edge of a forest. "Is this it?" he asks his father. He really doesn't want to talk to John right now, and he isn't planning to go beyond basic conversation. He wishes it was just him and Dean on the case right now. Sam misses the old days when they were always coordinated, always in-sync, and didn't need anyone else.

_You and me against the world._

Beside Sam, John nods in reply to his question. "Yeah. There's a clearing nearing the centre of the area. If we follow the trail, it should probably lead us there."

" _Probably_?" Sam asks, sceptical. It's not like he wants to pick a fight, but if they go the wrong way or walk right into a trap unprepared, all of this will be for nothing.

"What do you want from me, Sam? It's not like I was paying attention to where I was going when running for my _life._ I just followed a goddamn trail and it led me out here, okay?"

Sam scoffs. "Dad, for all we know, there could be more than just one trail leading in and out of here. How—?"

" _Enough_!"

Sam looks towards the back seat and sees Dean leaning forward, Castiel's hand on his shoulder, while he glares at Sam and John. "Why the fuck have you two started already? Can't you just shut up for a while? I'm tired of you two doing this all my fucking life and I'm not going to sit through any more. So whatever this is, we'll figure it out. And if you start again, Cas and I are going in and you two are going the fuck back. _All right_?"

There is pin-drop silence and Sam numbly watches Dean throw the back door open before hopping out of the car.

Cas and John get out as well, although Sam dawdles a moment before throwing his own door open. He sighs: trust him to piss Dean off and let him down yet again. He hadn't meant to fight with John. It just happens, and Sam can't help but get angry at his father's pig-headedness. He doesn't do it on purpose. But he now knows how much these fights distress Dean and he doesn't want to do that either.

Sam can't find a reason to blame his father and he feels guilty. John obviously wouldn't have been paying attention to what route he'd taken. Dean's right. He's got to stop losing his temper like this; if not for himself, then for Dean.

He pinches the bridge of his nose as a sudden jab of pain rockets through his head before dulling down. Probably the migraine, Sam thinks as he rubs his eyes. Lord knows, he's had them in the past. He's already dry-swallowed two Advil from the bottle they keep in the dashboard and he'd just done it before his dad entered the car, so Sam's hoping that this is just the period where he has to wait for them to kick in.

A small voice in his head reminds him that Advil doesn't help — has never helped him with migraines.

Groaning and wondering if his day could get any worse, he exits the car.

**~o~**

"Holy crap!" Dean exclaims, as they enter the clearing, slightly out of breath.

"You can say that again," Sam says while he gazes up at the cottage before them, set eerily at the centre. It seems to be made of stone, grown rough from age. It looks at home among the soft grass, like it just grew out of the ground. The scene is pleasant, giving an impression of homeliness and comfort. How could something sinister possibly live in a place like this?

However, Sam knows not to trust anything by appearance. Looks can be _very_ deceiving, especially when it regards the supernatural.

Sam smiles when Dean snorts at his comment. Giving his older brother a half-glance, Sam feels better seeing that Dean is standing on his own. Cas is standing close by, but still giving him his space. Sure, they did stop a few times on their trek through the forest on Sam's stubborn insistence that Dean rest, but given the past few days, Sam is proud of how well Dean is doing.

Sam cautiously walks towards the cottage first, giving a silent signal for Dean to stay behind him because, seriously, Dean doesn't need to get any worse than he already is, if this goes wrong. Dean rolls his eyes at Sam's bossing, but complies. Cas drifts towards Sam while John falls in place next to Dean. Sam nods as everyone takes their positions and he calculates each step, hoping that they're not walking into a trap.

They're about six feet away from the entrance of the lair when there is a deafening sound — like a clap of thunder. Sam feels himself collide with an unseen force and then, there's nothing but agony.

 _Oh, fuckfuckfuck_.

There's a sound — like a gunshot, but twenty times louder—and he's soaring, soaring until he hits something rough and prickly, pain bursting through every fibre in his body.

Almost immediately, another deafening roar echoes through the clearing. Sam's brain feels like it's being pelted by stones and he curls in… _what the fuck was that?_ He grits his teeth, trying not to scream while the ground underneath him vibrates with footsteps and there are voices… voices, voices, voices. ( _Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up. Please, oh please_ …)

His head swims. He can't even get his eyes to open and the pain hammers against his head, making him feel like he's either going to throw up or pass out. He hopes he can pass out.

"Sam?!" Dean's panicked voice is very, very close and too loud. _Please don't yell. Fuck._

He almost lets go. His head goes tap, tap, tap, and he wants to curl up and scream his lungs out. Hands are on his shoulders. Soothing hands.

"Sammy, come on. What happened, man? Open your eyes…"

And he can't. He can't, because he knows it will be too bright and that will tip him over the edge.

A hand lifts from his shoulder and lands gently on the top of his head.

 _"Cas?"_ Dean calls out. _"Cas, why isn't he getting up?"_

"What's happened?"

"He's in pain — holding his head."

"His head?!"

Dammit, Cas should stop panicking too. Dean doesn't have to know about… about…

"Come on, brother," Dean says, hand still on Sam's hair, light as a feather, and calming. "Just open your eyes, okay?"

Sam finally gets his eyes to open, only for his vision to swim and focus on Dean's worried face. He smiles, bringing his hand to cup the side of Sam's neck. "Hey."

Sam notices that Dean is on his knees, as is Cas, and his father is standing a few inches away, bent over and ready to help too.

Castiel opens his mouth. "Sam, your head—?"

"I'm okay," Sam whispers. "N-Not… this 's different." Castiel thankfully doesn't question him further. He tries to sit up, with Dean holding his shoulder and keeping Sam's neck gently cupped while he helps Sam into a sitting position. They stand up together, slowly, and Dean staggers under Sam's stumbling weight. At that moment John steps up and gently takes Sam's other arm to place it over his shoulders and Dean gratefully lets go of Sam.

Despite their fights before, Sam is glad that his father is there to hold him up when the world does a lazy spin and Sam starts to lose his footing.

"Thanks," he mumbles, as he tries to support himself.

He looks over to see Castiel and Dean leaning into each other as they walk. Worry slithers its way into Sam. Is Castiel hurt really badly?

He isn't paying much attention to the conversation between his father and brother while he focusses on just putting one foot in front of the other and reaching the car. As much as he'd like to, there's no way they're going to be able to explore the area right now.

There's definitely no way he's going to let John and Dean do it alone.

"Don't worry, we won't. We're heading back," he hears John say.

Did he just voice his thoughts out loud?

Sam shrugs it off, and wants to cry in happiness when reach the car. John deposits him in the back seat next to Castiel, and Sam doesn't object. His head feels like its being squeezed, and Sam grits his teeth. It's definitely a migraine.

He welcomes the darkness that creeps along the corners of his vision as the familiar rumble of the car surrounds him. Soon enough, he can feel himself drifting off and he embraces it, wanting anything but the agony.

**~o~**

**_Dean_ **

"Careful," Dean says as he helps Sam out of the car. His knees buckle slightly with Sam's weight but he manages to hold him up and tries to be positive about Sam's efforts to hold his own weight.

Dean's worried glance lands on Castiel who is ahead of him, holding the walls for support as he walks towards the front door. By the time Dean and Sam are halfway towards the door, Castiel is already inside.

Sam lists to the side and Dean grunts as he tries to keep both of them upright.

"Sorry," Sam mumbles and he manages to regain his balance.

"No problem. We're almost there. Come on," Dean says gently.

A few feet from the door, quite a number of leaves fall on Dean's head. Shaking them off with his free hand, Dean looks up in annoyance towards the enormous tree that overlooks the rundown house they're squatting in. There's a rustling sound and a bird flies out — it looks tiny, and Dean can't make out the colour of its plumage.

"That's weird," he says.

"What?" Sam looks up with him, but doesn't see the bird.

"Aren't birds supposed to go back to their nests in the evening or something?"

"There are nocturnal birds, Dean," Sam replies, looking back at the house. "Let's get in."

"Huh," Dean responds, eyes still fixed at the tree, looking for the bird. "I swear they're not that small, though." And then he spots something else. On one of the lower, branches are two… _something_ … impaled to thorns. Like someone's fucking trying to make a creepy kebab. _Ew_.

Dean voices his disgust, "Ugh. What the hell are those?"

"What?" Sam is getting impatient, but he does answer Dean's question as he squints at the branch. "They look like insects." He bites his lip. "You said you saw a small bird?"

"Yeah, tiny," Dean says.

"Must be a shrike." There's a shine in Sam's eyes, but it dulls the next moment. "We'll come see it in the morning."

"Dude, how do you know that?" Dean asks, dumbfounded.

"What?"

"That it's a… shriek? Or whatever."

" _Shrike_ , Dean," Sam replies exasperatedly. He hesitates. "Can we – can we go in, please? I don't—" he stops there, and swallows.

Dean sighs. "Yeah, Sammy. Sorry."

A few minutes later, Dean glances worriedly towards the hallway where Sam's room is located. He's taken care of the kid all his life, and catching the signs of a growing migraine isn't a very difficult job.

The way Sam was flexing his jaw and swallowing convulsively once they'd entered the house had told Dean that the kid was in pain and probably trying to swallow down nausea. In spite of how weak he'd felt, Dean had fought with his dad and himself escorted Sam to his room. He'd then come back for Castiel, who he found sitting on the floor near the front door.

Dean runs a hand over his face as he recounts the fear he'd felt seeing Castiel so vulnerable. Angels aren't supposed to feel pain unless their grace is injured in some way. So Dean is sure that Gan's force field shit must have packed a serious punch.

Cas is now resting in another room on Dean's insistence. Cas' anguished yell back at the clearing still reverberates through Dean's head, along with the image of seeing Sam being thrown into the air before hitting the ground and lying disturbingly still.

 _Stop_ , he chides himself. _They're okay. They're alive. That's all that matters._

He glances towards Sam's room again. _Fuck it_ , he thinks. He knows that he and his brother aren't exactly on the same wavelength these days, but no matter how much they fight, when it comes down to taking care of each other, they don't mess around. At the clearing, Sam hadn't protested when Dean helped him and Dean hopes he won't protest now. Sam is still pissed, yeah, and Sam can be pissed for as long as he wants, once he's okay. He currently has a no-good migraine that's going to knock him on his ass for a while.

Dean slowly starts making his way through the hallway towards Sam's room. He hates that he has to stop every few steps — hates that he feels so weak. He hates that he can't eat anything without his stomach rebelling. Just the idea of food makes him nauseated. It's not that he doesn't want to eat, it's the fact that every time he does, his mind is transported back to those sleazy motels, bars, and… God knows where else that Abaddon dragged him to.

Every time Dean tries to eat, he sees himself gut a baby or another innocent victim. He sees his own bloody hands move towards his lips and smear the dark red over them, and he feels his tongue lick it up, tasting the coppery tang...

It's all Dean can do not to collapse right there.

He despises it. He's stronger than this.

Yet again, he gives himself a mental shake to repel those thoughts. He sees them enough at night, during the nightmares that won't let go, without letting them take over the waking hours.

He stands outside Sam's room and hesitates before putting his hand on the rusted doorknob. Hearing a muffled groan, Dean slowly opens the door and his heart aches at the sight before him.

Sam is facing away from the window, forehead pinched in pain. His gigantic form is small, his body curling into itself as he lays on the small sleeping bag in the room.

Dean looks towards the window and realises with a pang that the curtains are open and that the little light shining in through the small, grimy window is probably making things worse for Sam.

Cursing under his breath, Dean crosses the length of the room and pulls the curtain shut, smiling to himself when he hears Sam whisper, "Thanks."

He then walks over and sits next to Sam, near his head. Instinctively, he reaches out a hand to brush through Sam's hair but he stops midway. Memories of their fights, the harsh things they said to one another comes rushing back and, suddenly, Dean feels like he's better off not making it even worse. Reluctantly, he withdraws his hand.

"How are you feeling?" he asks after a moment of silence, careful to keep his voice barely above a whisper.

"M'graine," Sam mutters, as though afraid that his own voice will make it worse; which it probably will.

"Yeah, no kidding," Dean replies. "You've been squinting for a while now. You had aura?"

Sam nods and then groans; the motion probably didn't help.

"Hey, take it easy," Dean soothes, and then he looks up at the sound of a knock.

"C'min," Sam says weakly, and the door opens. Dean meets eyes with his father, who is standing at the threshold, before Dean's gaze flits back to Sam.

Neither says a word as John comes over and sits opposite Dean.

"We should work on translating that note," John finally says out loud. Dean gives his father a glare as Sam hisses. John looks apologetic.

"Well?" John asks in a lower tone, as though waiting for an answer.

Dean can't believe his father is even asking this. Sure, it's a situation that needs taking care of, but Sam comes first. Always. And right now, Sam is in pain and having the mother-of-all migraines and all John can think of is the case?

Dean chuckles humourlessly, to himself. "You haven't changed one bit," he scoffs, fearless of the sudden annoyance in his father's eyes.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"The fact that you still care about a case more than your sons," Dean states. He feels satisfied at the look of shock on John's face. Dean has never spoken to John — or opposed him openly— like he's been doing today, but his dad had better get used to it. Dean is not going to be that kid soldier his dad trained anymore. Years of free will and the absence of John has taught him more than a few things.

Dean still loves the guy but after all that has happened, Dean wants his father to sort out his priorities.

"Dad, after all these years, even now, when Sam's sick, all you can think about is the fucking case?" Dean accuses.

"Sam's been worse, Dean. This shaman is dangerous. We're in a hot zone, because if he's sent the letter, he knows exactly where we are. And right now, we need to be one step ahead of him," John retorts.

Dean can't believe his ears. He recalls moments where he himself was injured and Sam fought tooth and nail with John to let Dean rest before the left for another case. He grits his teeth as he looks from Sam to John, and then back to Sam. And his decision is made. "No," he says sternly.

"What?" asks John, looking confused.

"You heard me. Sam is not in any condition to even _walk_ right now, let alone go hunting for this thing! Cas is pretty shaken up too. This can wait a few hours. Gan would have attacked already if he wanted to. We've been sitting ducks for the past few hours anyway. We are _not_ leaving until Sammy and Cas are all right, you hear me?"

A moan of pain directs Dean's attention towards Sam and he realises he's speaking too loud. He mutters an apology to his brother before glaring at his offended father. But Dean is not in the mood to listen to any more arguments.

"Just leave," he whispers to his father. He doesn't bat an eyelid when John stares him down before finally getting to his feet and stomping out of the room.

**~o~**

**_Castiel_ **

Castiel sits up in his sleeping bag, running a hand through his hair and groaning softly as it pulls on the bruised left side of his chest. The feeling is not alien to him. The car crash he'd been in after Metatron had stolen his grace and after what had happened back at the clearing taught Castiel how different this pain was, compared to grace inflicted wounds.

During the war in heaven a few years ago, Castiel remembers intense pain, a pain that seemed to suck out his life source at an agonisingly slow pace. That was what a grace inflicted injury felt like, and that's what Castiel feels now. But it still astounds him how the pain he'd felt during the car crash, getting tortured by the reaper possessing April, or even the rough fight between him and Ephraim, was _different_.

It fascinates him, and saddens him at the same time.

It's not like he didn't appreciate the short time that he was human, but he really wishes he had his grace back. His own grace. Not the stolen one in his system right now — the grace that he knows won't last long and will soon eat him away. Something that Dean definitely does not need to know, at least not right now.

It's like Castiel is falling down that hole all over again. Every time he's tried to make amends for his mistakes, it's never worked out. He has to try, and this time, he can't afford to lose.

Castiel mentally shakes himself, trying not to worry about it, because now they have a lot more on their plates.

He slowly gets to his feet and he smiles when his left side doesn't hurt so much. It had hurt terribly ("like a bitch", as Dean would say), when he'd been flung by the force field, back at the shaman's cottage. He hopes Dean won't nag at him about getting more rest because he feels well-rested now, and he wants to help Sam and Dean.

Knowing that Dean will probably be with Sam, he opens his door . . . and walks right into John Winchester.

Castiel grunts and stumbles but he manages to keep his balance. He looks up, intimidated, as John fixes him with a glare before continuing the opposite way down the hall. Trying not to feel bad about what just happened, Castiel continues towards the end of the hallway where Sam's room is situated.

Sam's door is half closed so Castiel knocks, not wanting to intrude on anything, but mainly not wanting to startle Dean or catch him off-guard. The least he can do is give Dean some space. He knows that Dean craves solitude sometimes and Castiel can't blame him. Lord knows what he must have gone through with Abaddon.

Sometimes Castiel feels like asking Dean what happened, getting him to talk, but then he always stops himself, scared of the answer. And he feels selfish for being this way.

His thoughts snap back to reality as Dean replies to his knock. "Go away."

Even then, Castiel opens the door further and peeks in. "It's me," he says.

Dean looks apologetic as he nods. Castiel walks in and slowly closes the door behind him. He then sits opposite Dean, near Sam's legs.

"Sorry. I thought you were Dad," Dean says, eyes not quite meeting Castiel's.

Castiel shakes his head. "It's fine. I walked into him in the hallway. He seemed...angry."

"Yeah," Dean says, giving the door a dark look. "He can get as pissed off as he likes. We ain't doing this his way."

Castiel frowns at him. "What did he say?"

Dean sighs. "He wanted to translate the note sent by that dickbag. He didn't care about the fact that you and Sam were hurt. I got pissed off and we argued and... yeah. It's funny how I used to look up to the guy, y'know?"

Castiel's heart breaks, seeing the pain and regret on Dean's face. It hurts even more because he can understand. It might be ironic that his father is _God_ , but in the end, both he and Dean had been abandoned at some point. He lets out a breath. "Well, we all look up to someone, don't we?"

For the first time in days, Dean's eyes meet Castiel's, and Castiel feels nothing but agony seeing the hurt, the age-old pain, and the trust in Dean's sunken eyes. He's missed this: missed seeing the green in Dean's eyes, because for the last few months, that brightness has dulled down, like it's devoid of life.

Whether or not Dean's eyes are full of life or just plain hurt, Cas feels reassured in some way that everything will turn out fine. Because for the first time in quite a while, Dean has plucked up the courage to look at him properly. To Castiel, it's all that matters.

Dean doesn't say anything, he just smiles and nods. "You all right?" he asks after a few moments of silence.

Cas nods. "I guess."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Dean asks.

Confused, Castiel tilts his head. "About what?"

He is taken aback at the look of annoyance on Dean's face. "That you're not...you're still..." Dean trails off, a look of frustration on his face.

Cas's stomach drops as he realises that Dean probably figured something out. "I'm _what_ , Dean?" he asks, wary of the answer.

"You're hurt! You told me you got your grace back! Maybe not your own grace, but grace all the same. That should mean you've got your mojo back, right? And if you've got your mojo back then you're not supposed to feel pain unless it's by an angel blade or something, right? Then what the hell happened back at that clearing? You scared the fuck outta me!" Dean says, accusations turning into a whispered ramble.

Cas looks down, playing with the hem of his pants. "I... I didn't want to worry you. You've been dealing with a lot of things. I just didn't want to make it worse," he mumbles.

When he looks up, Dean's expression is incredulous. "So… so what, now I'm terminal or somethin'? You decide to hide things from me to keep me happy during my last days, is that it?"

"No!" Castiel protests as well as he can in his whispered voice. "Dean, it's not—"

"Screw it, Cas," says Dean. "Not you too. I thought you and Sam would understand and not treat me like some disabled old man, you know. But you …" he sighs, and his voice is even lower when he says, "you guys think I'm broken in some way. Yeah, I get it, and I probably am. But not you, man. I trusted you two."

He looks away, towards the curtain-covered window and Castiel just sits back and lets Dean's words stab through his heart.

**~o~**

**_Dean_ **

Dean doesn't know whether or not he wants to be pissed right now. He moves a little ways away from Sam, towards Cas, so that their argument won't disturb his brother. Hurt and betrayal courses through him, and he bites his lip as he looks once again at Castiel. "Is there anything else you're hiding from me?"

"Nothing, Dean," Cas replies.

"Yeah, right," Dean scoffs. "Obviously there's a lot more going on here."

"Dean…"

Dean just shakes his head at him. "Whatever, Cas. Stop lying, okay?"

The way Castiel looks down confirms his guilt for Dean. Dean smiles dimly, shakes his head and plays with a tear in his jeans. He was away for a few months and things changed. Dean wonders if things will ever be the same between him and Cas; him and Sam.

Dean's mind drifts away to the stream of events that drove him and Castiel close, and he shuts his eyes, letting his mind go to the slightly happier times from before. Gosh, he can't even believe that those dank, weird days were happy in any way. But compared to what's happening now? They were freaking joyous.

Ah, they're screwed.


	5. Interlude: Remember

 

**Interlude: Remember**

 

**_Dean_ **

Dean will never forget the ache that developed in his heart on the day that he had asked Castiel to leave the bunker. He is grateful to Gadreel for helping Sam and saving Sam's life, but that was blackmail, and he still hates that he had to give in to it. He hates that he had to choose between Sam and Cas. They're the only two people he has, and he can't afford to lose either of them.

Yet he had watched, with a heavy heart, as Castiel left the bunker, looking odd without his usual trenchcoat, suit and tie. It reminded him of how human Castiel was, and how he was practically a child, new to living like this. And that just drove in more guilt.

Dean is happy to have an excuse to leave Sam at the bunker and go to Idaho, and he feels anticipation bubble up in him at the prospect of meeting Cas. It's been too long and the guilt has been a constant. If it isn't enough that Dean is constantly lying to Sam, there's this too: him kicking Cas out. He feels miserable sometimes, like there's too much to handle, and he hates that he has to live through it without Sam or Cas knowing what's going on.

He gets to Idaho, singing loudly to Zeppelin while steering his baby through sun-killed roads, and once he's familiar with the case there, he manages to track Castiel to a Gas-n-Sip, where he works meticulously at the counter and bags purchases for his customers. Dean's heart sinks. Castiel wouldn't have had to work if he had been able to stay at the bunker. He would have had an actual home. There would have been no need for him to work so hard to make ends meet.

Dean notices that Castiel looks different. He doesn't know if it's the humanness or the absence of the trenchcoat. But just looking at Cas makes Dean feel better — like he's finally not drowning anymore. Dean smiles at the familiarity of Castiel's moments, and makes his way into the shop, his heart beating madly against his rib cage.

Surprising Castiel doesn't work all that well, because Cas seems to want to remain 'Steve'. He is apprehensive about hunting and Dean has to persuade him to go to the crime scene. Castiel tells him about the date with his boss and Dean can only pretend to be cool with it, although he's not sure why it feels like such a big problem deep inside. Cas going anywhere shouldn't be an issue but for some reason Dean doesn't like the thought of it. He pretends—pretends to be happy for his friend—and also offers him some tips.

He knows that it's selfish of him to expect Cas to not want to do some human things, but these deep-seated feelings catch Dean completely off guard and something gnaws at him continuously at the thought of Cas on a date. But he still acts like he's okay with it all.

Dean almost stops Castiel from leaving the car. He controls himself in time, gives some more tips to Castiel about his clothes and the date and sex, and then feels odd when Castiel leaves the car. Like he's letting go of something. He doesn't show it, though, and leaves promptly when Castiel asks him to, as soon as the truck driver in front of him decides to stop acting like a dickbag.

An hour later, Dean discovers that the jackass in the truck is actually their culprit — Ephraim. Dean listens to everything that Ephraim has to say to Castiel about him being depressed and in pain, and is glad when Castiel puts the angel blade through the bastard. They clean up after, remove all evidence of blood from the house, and hide Ephraim's vessel's body in his own truck, all in silence. Dean offers to drive Ephraim's truck away and park it someplace else. He asks Cas what he wants to do, and Castiel finally speaks.

"Tania is sick. I'll take her for a walk to get her fever down until you're back. Then we can wait for her mother."

Dean frowns at this. "She only has a fever?"

Castiel shrugs, as he lifts Tania from her crib and holds her to himself. She whimpers, eyes teary as she leans against his chest, looking at Dean through long, thick eyelashes. Dean moves forward and places the back of his palm against the baby's forehead. She is slightly warm, just like Castiel said.

Dean takes his hand away and brushes it against his jeans. "It's only a slight fever," he says. "Sammy used to get them sometimes, I think, but I don't remember all that much. Dad gave him baby Tylenol. There'll be some in the medicine cabinet for sure. Go check."

Castiel nods and Dean takes Tania from him. She squirms in his grip for a moment, and then stops, as he holds her, and he can feel her large, trusting eyes on him again. Dean smiles at her and waits for Castiel to come back with the medicine. He lets Castiel hold the baby while he measures a small dose of the acetaminophen and puts the dropper in her mouth.

Tania's face scrunches up when she receives the medicine. She lets out a small cough and begins to cry. Castiel looks at her worriedly. "Why is she crying again?"

"Didn't like the taste of the syrup," Dean replies. "Sammy threw tantrums about these all the time. Kids hate this stuff."

"But…" Castiel twirls the bottle in his hand, squinting at the fine print. "It says that it's cherry flavoured. I find I quite like cherries, but maybe Tania doesn't."

"It ain't cherry flavoured," Dean replies. "They lie. It tastes like ass."

"Oh. They shouldn't lie, then," Castiel says sadly. "I have noticed that many retail products are advertised to make them look better than they are, and it's disgruntling to discover such a lie."

Dean smirks. "You don't say."

Castiel nods at him seriously. "It doesn't make sense to lie about this, Dean. Breaking someone's trust doesn't feel good, and I wonder how these sellers don't bother with breaking the trust of so many people."

"They're immune to it."

"That goes against their human nature."

"Yeah, well," Dean says, "they're just assholes. They want money, customer satisfaction be damned." He pauses. "Hey, you okay here for a while? I'm gonna take care of Ephraim. We can't have the cops after your boss for something we did."

"I'll be fine," Castiel replies, rocking Tania lightly as he speaks. "You go on. I'll get back to—"

"I'll be back to pick you up," Dean says, before Castiel can finish. "You got an apartment here?"

"I sleep at the store," Castiel replies. "So you can drop me there."

Dean's stomach drops several feet as he widens his eyes at Castiel. "You serious?"

Castiel sighs, rocking Tania. "My pay isn't good enough to rent a home. I find it's easier to just sleep at the shop."

"Cas…"

"You don't need to apologise, Dean," says Castiel, raising blue eyes to Dean, and Dean almost backs away and bolts. But he stays put, watching the truthfulness in his friend's eyes. There is silence and Tania whimpers a few times, while Castiel bounces her.

Dean clears his throat. "I think I should get rid of Ephraim."

"Yes, you should," Castiel replies. Dean has crossed over to the door, from the living room, when Castiel's voice stops him.

"Dean?"

He turns around, to see a light smile on Castiel's face.

"I know," Castiel says, "that whatever reason you have for not being able to have me at the bunker, is a good reason. I trust that you wouldn't just abandon me without thinking about it. So please don't be guilty about it."

That, somehow, just aggravates the guilt boiling in the pit of Dean's stomach.

**~o~**

Dean doesn't tell Castiel that the spell that Metatron had cast to expel the angels from Heaven is actually irreversible. He feels terrible about it, but it's better this way. He will definitely let Cas know . . . eventually, when Cas doesn't look so depressed and burdened by everything.

Castiel doesn't have a place to stay and Dean doesn't let him get back to the Gas-n-Sip. He takes Castiel back with him to the motel and gets his room upgraded to one with two queens. Castiel is quiet the whole time. After talking briefly talking to Nora, he hasn't said anything at all, except for a few one-worded protests about being taken to the motel with Dean. The air is heavy and awkward between them as they get into the room and the tension remains, like a thick block of ice, refusing to dissipate.

The room is musty and dank-smelling, wallpaper peeling off in thin slivers at places, as though someone ran their nails through it. Dean throws his duffle beside his bed and plops down onto the mattress with a groan. They don't turn on the lights.

"It's been quite the day." Dean sighs in the darkness, hoping to get Castiel to talk some. "I'm beat. You?"

Castiel sags, crosses his arms at his chest. "Yes. I think I should sleep, too."

"Cas…" Dean begins, but doesn't talk. He doesn't know what to say.

Castiel nods at him and makes his way to the other bed, where he sits down. He runs a hand through his hair before bending over and undoing his shoes. Dean observes him quietly, wondering if Castiel will talk. Cas is so different from Sam; when Dean wants Sam to talk, he doesn't have to worry because he knows Sam will come out and insist on some chick-flick moments after a while. But Cas… Dean doesn't know what to do.

He feels helpless. He wants his friend to get his grace back too but Dean isn't quite sure how to accomplish that. He buries his face in his hands and sits quietly, listening intently for any sounds of movements from Castiel, but there is none. So he just stays still, seconds stretching to minutes, until, after a while, Castiel finally speaks up.

"I am not used to this, you know," he says in a low voice. "I've been almost human — and very weak—but this…"

Dean looks up at Castiel, who is sitting on the other bed with his back to him, and his dark outline is clear in the silvery moonlight streaming in from the large windows. Dean licks his lip. "Hey, Cas…"

"I hate being useless," Castiel finishes with a sigh.

"You're not useless."

Castiel turns around to Dean, and although Dean can't see his face very well in the dark, he imagines Cas's eyes, bright blue and narrowed.

"I can barely help," Castiel says. "I don't know how to deal with all of this. I am employed at a Gas-n-Sip while you and Sam are working very hard at the bunker. I _am_ useless, Dean."

"Hey," Dean says, "it's dangerous for you to hunt with us, okay? That's why we're good with you laying low. Without your powers—"

"You pointed out to me earlier today that you can hunt efficiently without powers, and that I can do just fine without mine," Castiel replies. "Then why do I feel handicapped?"

"I can hunt because I was trained to hunt ever since I stopped sucking my thumb," Dean scoffs. "Regular people can't fire a gun without getting knocked back on their asses. But that's not the thing, Cas."

"Then what is it?"

"This thing… being human," Dean says, "I know it sucks, okay. But there's a lot of good things about it too."

"Like what?"

Dean smiles, gets up from his bed, and goes and sits down next to Castiel, feeling the lumpy mattress dip beneath him as he leans back with his palms for support and looks at his friend. "You never felt anything before, right?"

"No. But I feel the pain now," Castiel says, eyes growing sad, as he locks gazes with Dean. Dean's heart jumps, as an urge he's been fighting off all day erupts. He reins it in, once again, and swallows.

"You haven't felt the _pleasure_ , Cas."

"I have," Castiel corrects him. "Even if I realised it was not... a _pleasurable_ experience after."

Dean can't ignore the burn in his chest at the mention of April. He wants to... needs to explain, because Cas probably did not understand the implications of what April did... and Dean would have never thought of it... _before_. He doesn't quite know how to explain it to Castiel. Or even how to explain being human. There are so many things. Trust, loyalty, grief, guilt, anger, love, the colourful surges of emotions, the happiness that comes from the tiniest of things, and enjoyment of the simple things and the complicated things and _living_ itself. Dean doesn't know how to explain any of this. But he clears his throat.

"I can't tell you fully, Cas. But you know what? I know that for me and Sam, every day is a struggle. And we suck — our life, it just sucks—but when we need to hold it together, it's this stuff that helps. When we know what makes us happy. When we need something to remind us of what it's like to be happy." He pauses. "You'll know too. And you'll like it."

Castiel takes a good look at him and smiles sadly. "Do _you_ like it, Dean?"

Dean falls quiet. Does he like his life? Definitely not. But he knows why he's holding on. He knows why he hasn't put a bullet to his brain yet. Why he gets out of bed every day and smiles, talks, hopes. Why dying is something that crosses his mind only sometimes, instead of all the time. And a part of that reason is sitting right before him.

Sam and Cas. _Family_.

"I just…" Castiel begins and trails away, and Dean looks at him intently, waiting for him to complete the sentence. Castiel whispers it into the quiet night, as though he is ashamed of himself for even thinking of it, but Dean hears it anyway, and his heart missing a beat at Castiel's words. "I just can't seem to fit. I can't help feeling that I'm unwanted."

Silence stretches between them, and the sounds of their breaths is the only thing breaking through. Dean can _feel_ Cas vacillating beside him — he can almost _hear_ Cas's mind thinking of a hundred things. Castiel's words echo through his head, eating away at him little-by-little.

He feels a surge of the same familiar-unfamiliar emotion that's been gnawing at him all day. And before Dean knows it, he's leaning in and kissing Castiel squarely on the lips.

Cas is obviously caught off-guard. His breaths are erratic as his lips lie limp against Dean's, and Dean can feel Castiel's eyelashes fluttering against the bridge of his nose as he raises his hands, probably to push Dean away. Just as Dean is about to pull back, Castiel's hands cup his cheek lightly, and Castiel is kissing him back.

Dean puts his hands on Castiel's shoulders, gripping him tight and working his mouth faster. Castiel's breaths slow to match his, and their noses clash lightly, sending Dean chuckling against the ex-angel's lips. He disconnects from Cas and pushes him gently on the bed before straddling him, bending over, and kissing him again. He feels Castiel's hands on his back and sighs lightly against his wet, warm lips while he enjoys Castiel's touch. The long kisses break into small, short ones and Dean goes down, dusting them on Castiel's neck, nuzzling his nose against soft skin, and hearing Castiel gasp with every caress. He nibbles lightly at Cas's ear and kisses the lobe, before rising up from his position and looking into Castiel's eyes.

"Only if you wanna, Cas…" he says hoarsely, his heart thumping against his chest at unbelievable speed. He can feel a familiar sensation near his navel and he curls his toes to control it as he waits for Cas's reply.

And Castiel just pulls Dean down to press his lips against Dean's again.

They undress quickly, and explore each other with a hunger that bubbles over each time they think it's gone. Dean's fingers caress and stroke, his lips pressing against the curve of Castiel's neck, shoulders, and chest, and his whole body shudders as Castiel grips at Dean's hips, letting out low grunts and gasps, his face shimmering with droplets of sweat, while Dean continues his journey lower and lower.

Then Castiel's fingers are in Dean's hair, holding on against a storm of emotions. Thick, but light digits press against Dean's scalp as Castiel moans, and Dean sighs, kissing and licking, teasing Castiel into a frenzy until he arches and shudders against the bed, his breaths heavy and his lips repeating Dean's name in urgent whispers.

When Dean surfaces, tired and breathless himself, Castiel tugs at his shoulders and pulls him up before placing both hands on Dean's face and pulling him close. He curves a leg around both of Dean's and before Dean knows it, Castiel's arms are around his waist as he flips Dean over, getting on top of him and gently pushing Dean to lay on his stomach. Then Dean feels a light hand on the side of his head, stroking his hair back once, as Castiel comes down to kiss him beneath his ear.

Dean shudders at Castiel's kisses, and Castiel's other hand presses against Dean's shoulder as he kisses the nape of Dean's neck. Dean takes a sharp intake of breath and turns his head slightly, trying to make eye-contact with Castiel. His voice barely comes out, only a hoarse whisper as he talks. "Lube."

Castiel stops the trail of kisses down the back of Dean's neck and his breath is heavy against Dean's earlobe, when he talks. "What?"

"Lube," Dean repeats. "In… in my bag…" Even though Dean's never fucked a dude, he's always kept packets of those because accidental lack of lubrication and the resulting soreness isn't something he likes to experience at all. He turns around a little more, to look at Castiel, who blinks sluggishly, before his eyes widen.

"Dean…"

"Do you want me to get it?" Dean murmurs, a little disappointed at their interrupted moment.

"No, no, I…" Castiel suddenly looks mortified, and Dean scrambles to switch on the lamp. The light comes on in a burst and both of them shield their eyes while they get accustomed to the brightness. Dean peers in small glimpses, to see Castiel's scrunched-up face while he deals with the sudden assault to his eyes.

"'S matter, Cas?"

"I can't," Castiel says, finally opening his eyes fully to look at Dean. "Dean…"

"Why?" Dean asks him. He pauses. "I'm not your type, huh?"

Castiel doesn't reply to that. Awkwardly, he untangles himself from Dean before he sits on the edge of the bed, face in his hands. Dean sits up against the headboard, pulling the covers around him to keep his modesty intact, waiting for Castiel to say something. But Castiel doesn't reply. Instead, he bends over and grabs his boxers, pulls them on, and turns to Dean.

"I think I should get my own room."

"Cas…"

Castiel shakes his head. "No. You don't understand. You're my friend."

"I know, and you're mine."

"We can't — we—"

"We already did," Dean says. "Well, almost."

Castiel bites his lip, and then he sighs, eyes growing sad. "What if this… this hurts?"

"It will in the beginning," Dean says, "but you'll get used to it, y'know."

"Not physically," Castiel whispers, and Dean understands then. He watches Castiel bury his face in his hands again and vacillate some more.

Dean chuckles lightly. "You won't hurt me, Cas," he says. "And I won't hurt you."

"Are you quite sure?"

"Yeah."

There's silence, and Castiel still remains on the side of the bed, stiff, unyielding. Dean feels his heart sink, knowing this probably isn't going to work. Not today anyway. He eyes Castiel for a while, before licking his lip. "If you want, we could leave it here and never talk about it."

Castiel doesn't look back at him or reply for a long time. And then, finally, he nods. Slowly, he gets out of the bed and collects his clothes, going into the bathroom to wear them while Dean puts some nightclothes on. When Castiel comes back out, as promised, they don't talk about it.

They don't talk about it the next morning, or for months afterwards. And when Gadreel kills Kevin and leaves the bunker with Sam in tow, Castiel comes to Dean's aid and for a few brief minutes, before they discuss plans, before anything, Dean kisses Castiel again and Castiel doesn't ask him questions. However, after they've rescued Sam, and when Dean's come back to the bunker a few days later, they do talk about it.

After killing Bartholomew, Castiel returns to the bunker and Dean, in his loneliness, finds himself holding Castiel close. That night, they use Dean's lube and they talk about it in detail — their relationship, where they stand and what they expect from each other while lying in each other's arms, in Dean's room, for hours and hours while Sam sleeps on, angry, in another corner of the bunker. Sam stays angry and Dean grows closer to Cas, the hole from all of Sam's words still searing in his chest, but the feeling of having Castiel easing a minuscule amount of the pain.

Sam finds out, and smirks at Dean. An almost adoring smirk, which makes Dean want to ask him if they can be brothers again. He thinks, though that the fact that he mentioned that he and Cas were 'kinda together' is what amused Sam the most. Later, Dean overhears Sam telling Castiel that he's glad that Dean has Cas, and Dean almost reprimands Sam for making it sound like he needs someone, because he doesn't.

The rest of it passes by in a blur and by the time Dean is kidnapped and possessed by Abaddon, he is hopelessly in love. When Dean gets rescued, after being nearly dead and broken in every way, the only silver lining is that he has Sammy back as well.


	6. A Game For Two

**Four: A Game For Two**

**_Dean_ **

A muffled thump shakes Dean out of his reverie. He turns away from the dusty window of Sam's room to search for the source of the noise and his heart jumps to his throat when he sees that Sam is lying haphazardly on the floor, pain lines so evident, they look as though they've been carved into his face.

Dean hurries to his brother's side and slowly, with a lot more effort than he should need, helps Sam back to his original position. "Crap. Sam, you okay?"

"Wat'r," whispers Sam. Dean looks towards Cas, who hurries out without question. Dean sighs and sits down next to Sam, this time threading a hesitant hand through Sam's hair. It warms him a little seeing that Sam leans towards him, just like he used to when he was a kid. He remembers the times when Sam was either scared or sick, or just wanted his brother and this simple gesture would calm him right down, sometimes even send him to sleep.

Dean misses that. He misses the worry-free time. He misses being a big brother.

"Dude, what the hell were you trying to do?" Dean asks.

"Um, trying to get up. Water," Sam says, slowly blinking his eyes open. Dean's heart wrenches as he can literally see the pain in his brother's eyes, and all Dean can do is sit around and hope that it wears off soon.

"Idiot. Could have called for us. We were right here, man."

Sam shakes his head and Dean winces in sympathy when Sam scrunches up his face like the motion had made it worse, which it probably did.

"Didn't wanna be useless," Sam says in a low tone. Dean barely catches the last word and he sighs. He doesn't know what to say. Sam has been anything but _useless_. And yet, all Dean's done is give him crap for it. Dean knows he's done some things that really hurt Sam, but he was acting on the situation they were in. Now, fuck, he feels so guilty. He doesn't know how to fix it.

Before he can dwell any further, however, Castiel enters with a glass of water. Dean helps Sam up a little so he can drink properly, without choking on the liquid. He hates seeing Sam clench his jaw as he is moved, meaning Sam is trying to fight phenomenal agony.

Sam takes a few sips of the water, with Dean holding the glass steady. Sam weakly pushes at the glass when he's done, and Dean places it next to himself on the floor, helping Sam lower himself back down onto the sleeping bag.

"Is this as bad as…?" Castiel starts to ask Sam before shooting a swift glance at Dean. As bad as _what_? The hairs at the back of Dean's neck rise. Cas knows something about Sam. Something important.

Sam sighs as he slowly places his forearm over his forehead. "No, Cas. It's, um, it's worse…"

"Worse?" Castiel interrupts him, eyes growing wide. "We should take you to a hospital then, Sam! That time was—"

"I know," Sam says. "No, I mean — this is different. It's a migraine. Probably because of the lack of sleep or something."

Dumbfounded, Dean opens his mouth to ask what exactly is going on, when Castiel speaks again, in a soft voice.

"You'd say something, right?"

"I would, Cas." Sam sounds exasperated. "C'mon, man, nothing is wrong."

"The last time you didn't sleep—"

"Cas, I _know_ ," Sam says loudly, moving away his arm to meet Castiel's eyes. _Not in front of Dean,_ Sam's expression seems to say.

Dean is jealous. He and Sam have always been the ones to converse with gestures, sign language, grins, and expressions — mostly because they grew up together, they've always been in sync, always matched steps. However, since Dean's been back, it hasn't been that way. Sam has slipped. It's like they don't click anymore. They always functioned as one unit, but now, it's just weird and uncomfortable.

Dean has never seen Sam and Castiel as close as they seem now. They've been hiding things from him, though. Why would they do that? Do they seriously think that he can't handle it?

Dean is perfectly fine, thank you very much. He's strong enough. He's not some invalid bound to a fucking wheelchair unable to move or some shit like that. And he's not spun of sugar. He is not going to shatter to pieces if they deign to let him into the truth. Fuck them.

Anger crashes over him in waves. He silently listens to the conversation taking place before him.

"I'm fine, Cas." Sam confirms. "I'll be fine. I've, uh, had these before. I'll be all right. You okay?" he pauses. "The last time your grace acted up, you'd passed out from the pain in your chest."

Dean's heart drops to his stomach.

_Pain in his chest?_

Why the hell was he not told about this?

Castiel is about to reply, when Dean interrupts him. "This is great," he remarks, earning the attention of Sam and Cas. He turns to Castiel. "You passed out? Pain?"

Castiel has the decency to look guilty as he squints at the floor. And it satisfies Dean. Damn right, Castiel should feel guilty about this.

Dean turns his glare to his brother. "And you?" he jabs.

Sam sighs and closes his eyes. "They were tension headaches, okay? I used to get them because of stress."

"Really?"

"Yeah, Dean," Sam says, opening his eyes to fix them on Dean. "Honest."

"So… you need the hospital for such headaches?"

Sam raises an eyebrow. "Cas is freaking out. You want to take him seriously?"

There is silence for a couple of minutes, and Dean breaks it by chuckling humourlessly. "I can't believe you two. Why didn't you tell me about this?"

"Okay," Sam replies, "I, uh, had a bout of cold in between too. And Cas got a paper cut. Sorry we lied." He tries to roll his eyes, but Dean catches his bullshit.

"Seriously, Sam? You think I'm an asshole?" He narrows his eyes at Castiel. "And you, Cas?"

Castiel fidgets a little with his hands before saying, "You were still healing, Dean. We just didn't want to—"

" _Enough_ ," Dean says sternly. "I'm all right, okay? I'm alive. I'm walking and talking. What more do you want from me?"

"Dean—"

Dean doesn't listen to him as he unsteadily gets to his feet, stumbling a little. He realises then that Cas is by his side, supporting him and he pushes him away as he limps out of the room with as much dignity as he can muster.

Fuck 'em. Fuck both these morons. If they don't want him to care, he won't give a fucking shit.

He does know, though, that somehow, it will all come tumbling down.

**~o~**

**_Castiel_ **

Castiel sighs as he watches Dean slam the door shut. This isn't what he had wanted. Things were getting better, or so it had seemed, but he was wrong. Dean was angry now, and Castiel felt half-guilty for keeping the truth away from him. But he knows — he just knows that Dean can't handle it. It will be too much. He may be over-reacting but he's just scared for Dean. And if Dean breaks…

"We'll talk to him later," Sam whispers, cutting through his thoughts. Castiel walks back to Sam, rubbing absently at the sore spot on his chest. Dean had unknowingly shoved him where his bruises were. He decides not to tell Dean, though. It will only cause more problems.

"How do you think he'll take it?" Castiel asks him.

"I don't know," Sam says, "but we'll just talk. I don't—" he swallows, looking pleadingly at Castiel, "I don't want him to know, okay? It will just freak him out and he's not doing so hot, Cas."

Castiel nods in agreement. "I know. He's bound to find out, though. You two never seem to be able to keep any secrets."

"I know," says Sam quietly. "But I won't intentionally hurt him. I won't do it."

Castiel thinks about it, and nods slowly. He lets out an exhale. "You should try and get some rest, Sam." He smiles slightly when Sam obeys, and closes his eyes. They've both had quite the scare over the last few months.

"You can leave, you know," Sam says after a few seconds of silence.

"No it's—"

"It's fine, Cas. I'll be fine. I just… I wanna be alone for a while," Sam says.

Cas sighs and nods. He'll check back on Sam later. He is careful to be as quiet as he can when he leaves the room. Thinking that he could probably try and help John with the translating, he makes his way towards the main hall.

He hesitates a little when he passes Dean's door, but then shakes his head. He'll probably only end up aggravating Dean more if he does anything now. He'll figure it out later.

He sees John sitting cross-legged on the floor, a few books open in front of him with the shaman's note resting on one of them. They'd decided to pack a few relevant books from the Men of Letter's library before heading out towards the dilapidated house they're currently squatting in.

Castiel silently takes the note and sits down opposite John who gives him a cursory look and then goes back to reading the book in front of him. Castiel squints at the pictographic writing on it. He wishes his grace weren't taking parts of him with it, and that he could recollect how to decipher this script. Frowning at the note, he tries to recollect centuries' worth of information. Even the smallest bit of help could go a long way.

"Are they okay?" asks John quietly, breaking Castiel away from his thoughts.

"They will be," Castiel answers truthfully, eyes not lifting from the piece of paper in his hand. It's not like he's trying to be rude, but he knows that John isn't very fond of him. He's just trying not to make it worse than it already is.

"How do you know them? Did you hunt with him before?" John asks.

Castiel looks up and is surprised to see curiosity in John's eyes. He doesn't sense the judgemental glances he'd gotten before and hopes that things are finally evening out between them. "I haven't hunted a lot. You can say I'm still kind of a rookie. As for how I met them: I was sent to pull Dean out of Hell."

Castiel watches as John's brows furrow; processing the information. "Why was he in Hell?"

Castiel takes a deep breath. "I believe it's his story to tell."

"And not yours? Since you've promised to stay by him?"

"It's my story too, but the choice to reveal it is not mine," Castiel says firmly. There's no way he is going to betray either of the Winchesters' trust by babbling about their past to someone who's _essentially_ supposed to be dead.

They sit in awkward silence for a while before John speaks up again, "They seem to be fighting a lot."

"Yes, they do."

"Well?" John prods impatiently. "Isn't there anything you can tell me, Castiel? What happened while I was gone? What changed?"

Castiel purses his lips as he looks curiously at John. He wonders why the problems faced by Sam and Dean are bothering John so much. God never bothered about his angel's troubles. Castiel decides that maybe John isn't so bad after all. But even so, he can't just talk about the hardships he'd faced with Sam and Dean, without their permission.

He purses his lips. "I could," he says, "but I won't. Because, _again_ , it's not my story to tell. But I can say this. They may not be the Sam and Dean you knew almost ten years ago. They've been through a lot, partly because of my kind, but they trusted me, even when I didn't trust myself. Give them some time." Castiel smiles.

For the first time since John has arrived, the man nods and returns a small smile.

Maybe things can get better.

**~o~**

**_Dean_ **

It takes a little effort, but he does it. Dean huffs as he deposits his sleeping bag in Sam's room, ignoring the pain that's flaring up in his thighs. He avoids the curious gaze Sam throws at him and lowers himself onto the sleeping bag, trying not to groan from the aches he can feel all along his legs and back. He refuses to let his mind drift towards the reason for the pain. He relives that never-ending nightmare way too often.

He steals a glance towards Sam, who is staring at the ceiling with a pained look in his eyes.

"Sleep, Sam," Dean says gruffly. He may still be pissed about what happened earlier, but his worry for his brother made him shift into Sam's room for a while.

"Yeah. 'Kay. You should get some rest too," Sam whispers.

"Why the fuck would you care?" Dean retorts.

He hears the sharp intake of breath from Sam and feels like maybe he shouldn't have said that. But he couldn't help himself. Sam's said enough hurtful things before that Dean decides his response is justified.

"Because you're my brother," Sam sighs.

Dean scoffs, "Yeah, right. Because you willing to let me die, willing to hide things from me is so _brotherly._ "

"I didn't say that, Dean."

"Sure," Dean replies. Sam may have saved him from Abbadon, but that doesn't mean that if something else pops up, his brother would go through the trouble of saving him again. The words said months ago by Sam still eat at Dean, still echo around in his head. He doesn't know why, but they still do. And he thinks he's justified in lashing out.

A tense silence follows and Dean lies back on his sleeping bag and faces the other way, saying, "Wake me up if you need anything."

A few minutes pass and Dean slowly falls into an uneasy sleep.

_"You're a pretty little bitch, Winchester."_

No.

Dean can't be here again. _No. Please._ Sam got him out. He's all right.

Isn't he?

The walls around him are puke-green. The beds look dirty, and God knows how many people have been on them. But there's someone sitting on the bed. A man. He grins, as his eyes flash black. _"I've been waiting for you."_

As much as Dean doesn't want to, he grins too. He breathes in the air around him, and it smells of whiskey and cigarette smoke. _"I'm all yours,"_ his mouth replies. He peels off his jacket and throws it on the bed. _"Go on."_

 _"I've wanted this for so long."_ There's a hand on Dean's cheek. _"Hot piece of Winchester ass."_

Dean's tongue wets his mouth suggestively, and his eyebrows go up. _"You have it."_

He wants to scream, wants to yell out as hands begin working on his jeans, taking them off with hunger that makes his skin crawl. Bile rises up his throat, but a voice laughs inside his head as he swallows it down. His boxers are down in another moment, as cold hands touch his inner thighs and go upwards.

_No… please… "Do it!"_

A choked sound escapes him, masked by a laugh. **_Oh no, Dean-o. We are just going to have fun._**

Hands are assaulting him, exploring him while he's forced to gasp and laugh like he's enjoying it. He's thrown against the wall, and he feels the demon press against him, as he clutches on to Dean's hair and presses Dean's wrists against the wall with the other hand, after bringing them over Dean's head. Dean feels a sharp sting near his shoulder blade as teeth sink into his skin and flesh, and something warm is oozing out the next instant.

 _"Amazing,"_ his mouth says, as the demon pushes him against the wall again, and this time, Dean feels more agony, like something is slicing through him.

His ear presses against the wall and he can hear a movie playing in the next room. He is knocked against the wall again, excruciating pain hitting him, and all he does is laugh more.

**_"That's an insult to both of us. It makes me stupid and you... a whore."_ **

Dean recognises the Chuck Norris movie perfectly. There's someone in the next room. Maybe they can hear them. Maybe they can—

Dean opens his mouth to yell, but instead of that, he begins to laugh.

"Dean!"

The scene changes, but he's still in the motel room. He notices warm dampness beneath his jeans. When he looks, he leaps to his feet, because he realises he's sitting in a damp stain of red. Taking two steps back, he looks back towards it and the blood is gone.

What is going on?!

_"No, please."_

**_"That's an insult to both of us. It makes me stupid and you... a whore."_ **

The taste of copper assaults Dean's taste buds as, all of a sudden, all he feels is pain. Pain, pain, _painpainpain_ … and there's blood. Blood on his jeans, on his shirt… between his legs…

He drops to his knees as his thighs and hips feel like they're on fire. His back aches.

 _"Please,"_ Dean chokes as he starts dry heaving, spitting out the blood.

The stench of cigarette smoke and whiskey mix with that of the blood and he coughs heavily. The smoke thickens, blocking Dean's vision and his eyes water. When the smoke starts to dissipate, Dean squints, only to see _her_ **.** Terror freezes him to his spot.

 _"No, no,"_ Dean whispers.

He recoils as she gets closer to him. _"Don't worry, Dean. Soon, you and I will be one."_

_"You're a pretty little bitch, Winchester."_

"Dean!"

Sam's voice penetrates everything else, and Dean's eyes open. He gasps as he sits, awake, sweat drenching his form, feeling Sam's eyes on him from the sleeping bag beside his.

 _It was just a nightmare,_ he tells himself.

_Just a fucking nightmare._

**~o~**

**_Sam_ **

Sam is glad that Dean is asleep because he can't get himself to shut his eyes. They burn and throb, and his brain beats against his skull, trying to find an escape route. He hopes he won't get sick because once that starts, it's a never-ending cycle. He shifts uncomfortably against his pillow and throws an arm over his eyes. Gosh, this sucks. With everything that's happened recently and with the kind of shit he's endured since his last migraine, he's definitely forgotten how awful these 'headaches' can be.

His thoughts swirl. Colourful, muted rainbows blind him, and they're overlain with… Sam is not sure what. He breathes in, breathes out, tries to get through his pain. Dean stirs; Sam ignores him and wills the migraine to leave. But it doesn't, and the pounding in his head just seems to get worse by the minute. Sam curses himself. He should have filled his prescription for Imitrex. Advil does shit to help him with these monsters.

And then, halfway through his barely-peaceful nap, as though the whole of the solar system is just plotting against them, Dean begins to stir next to Sam. The first thing Sam feels is sympathy, because he realises from Dean's gasping breaths, that he's having a nightmare. He recognises the signs clearly now, after their frequent nightmares over the last few years.

"Dean," Sam calls out, to remind his brother that he's dreaming.

Dean doesn't respond. He moans out something and clenches his fists, body arching against the sleeping bag as his eyelids crinkle. Sam inches closer. "Dean!"

Dean jolts awake and eyes Sam, but ignores him. Sam wishes he'd let him help. He really does. He needs to not be useless.

"Hey," Sam repeats, and then clenches his jaw against the pain. Drums play in his head. His brain knocks against his skull again and it feels like his meninges are quivering in pain; _beat_ , _beat_ , _beat_ , _crash_.

Sam squints at his brother, who curls into himself, still gasping, and shaking a little. _Why, Dean? Why won't you talk to me?_

But the reply is tight there, in his mind.

_Because I'm an asshole brother._

Sam puts a hand on his forehead and turns to his side. "Hey, Dean," he repeats, in a whisper.

"Sleep, Sammy," Dean replies. "Gonna make yourself sick."

Sam's brain sprouts a hundred different hands and the bastards start to practice punching against bone. He swallows. "It can't possibly get worse."

Dean offers a shaky laugh. "Good for you."

Sam knows what Dean is hiding under that fake smile: _Sam, my pain is so much more than that, I'd take the migraine any day, if that's the worst you got._

That's it. They have to talk. Sam doesn't care if his head explodes in the end and Dean's covered in brain matter: he'll talk. Dean's hurting too much.

So he licks his lip. "I know how bad it can get."

"A migraine? Sure thing." Dean sighs. "I feel you, man."

"No," Sam replies. "Not the migraine." And as if his brain's angry with him for it, it sprouts some legs too and jumps up and down in its vault, and Sam just wants to reach a hand into his head through his nostril, pull his brain out, and throw it away.

Dean swallows audibly. "Then what are you talking about?"

Sam blinks, and it hurts. He bites the inside of his cheek, before speaking reluctantly. "Kevin."

Dean stiffens, and Sam continues. "I see him. When I try to sleep." _A scream, bright, bright eyes — and Kevin's dead._

"And," says Sam, "Steve Wandell." _Beating him into a pulp. Knuckles crashing against flesh, getting stained in slick, warm blood._

Dean remains quiet as Sam pushes himself up to rest on his elbow. "But that's not the worst," he whispers, and Dean turns slowly, to face Sam. Eyes meet, and Sam catches his brother's broken gaze. "It's not even the worst, Dean."

"Sammy…"

"I shot you. Beat you up. Snapped Bobby's neck. Killed Cas…" Sam stops there as his heart comes up to his throat. Splashes of red cover his mind's eye and he's seeing it all again, reliving it. His hands smell of blood. He almost gags at the chunks of flesh that have spattered over him.

"Sammy?"

Dean looks startled as his whispered voice brings Sam back. And Sam's surprised that he's clean, because, no, he's filthy. Terrible.

_You're a monster._

Sam's never spoken about it. Not outright, anyway. They've made jokes, and Sam's laughed forcefully, because what else can he do? He's terrible, maimed, spoiled…

 _Monster_.

"Do you… remember a lot?" Dean asks him slowly.

"Not everything," Sam replies. _But enough_. "I know you think I don't care—"

"No, Sam."

"Dean," Sam says. "I know, okay? I'm sorry. But… but I didn't—" he cuts off as the bastard shrike sings out its tune. What fuck kind of a bird is awake at this hour anyway?

His brain is still performing aerobics in his head and Sam hisses at a sudden swell of the nausea that's been simmering all this time. Saliva pools in his mouth and he swallows it down. Puking is going to make everything worse and he will not give in to it, come what may.

He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath. He wants to talk to Dean, but is scared of opening his mouth. There's a roaring in his ears, and Dean calls out to him as though he's talking from a great distance. _"Sam? Sammy?"_

When Sam opens his eyes again, Dean looks horrified: eyes wide, mouth agape, worry lines carving into his face. Sam finally thinks it's safe to open his mouth.

"Do we have the anti-nausea meds?" he asks breathily. He wants to sort this out and have an uninterrupted conversation with Dean.

Dean nods. "Dramamine. In my duffel. We've got Zofran injections if it's too bad."

Sam gulps again. "No, no, I'll just—" He sways and tilts as he tries to get up, everything spinning in loops, and just when he's regaining his bearings, there is a sound from the hallway.

The doorbell rings for a second time that night. Sam frowns, freezes, and his guard rises. Okay, this could be anyone — possibly Gan… well, _probably_ Gan—and he has to be prepared. He hears his father open the front door, and waits for something, some noise, but…

"Who is it?" Castiel's voice asks from the living room. Sam moves some more, but stops on his tracks when Cas speaks again.

_"Mary Winchester."_

 


	7. Matrem

** Five: Matrem **

**_Mary_ **

The first thing that Mary realises when she comes to is that she is drenched from head to toe.

Through her shut eyelids, she makes out a flash of light and when she opens them, there is thunder, just like she'd expected. Large, chilly drops of rain fall on her, drenching her further, if possible. There are goosebumps on her skin from the cold. She pushes damp strands of hair out of her eyes and sits up.

Where is she?

A vague memory comes back to her — of feeding Sam and putting him in his crib. She remembers taking Dean to say goodnight to Sam, and then going to sleep in her room while John tucked in Dean and probably went to watch TV or have a beer. She can't remember anything after that, and she has no clue why she's outside, in the rain.

She takes a deep breath. She has to find John and her children. Once she does that, she can pull this apart and try to figure out what supernatural thing did this to her. That is if she gets back to her family alive. Then she can figure out a way to hunt this thing down without John's scrutinising eyes finding her out.

Mary stands up on shaky legs, with her translucent nightgown sticking to her body. Wrapping her arms around herself, she tries to swallow down the fear bubbling up in her. She has no weapons, no memories of how she got here, and no idea of what she's facing. She's not prepared at all, and there's a huge chance she'll not survive this.

What will happen to her babies if she dies? How will John singlehandedly take care of them?

Okay, no, no, she has to _think_. She has to get out. Standing here and panicking about John and the boys won't help. She needs to find her way back… or at least try and figure out where she is right now.

She looks around, and the answer comes to her. _In the middle of nowhere_.

She looks around, eyes trying to focus through the large water drops falling into them. The fog around her is thick, but she can see a large object in the distance. A house? A small hill? Deciding that she might as well start somewhere, Mary starts making her way towards the large structure. Her feet are bare and they squelch against soft mud as she finds her path. She can't stop thinking about her boys. Would John have gone crazy, looking for her?

How long has she been away?

The dark structure looms closer and closer and Mary is nervous as she approaches it. When she takes a few more steps, the shape becomes evident and she realises that it is, indeed, a house. It looks ancient, though, with a large, wild lawn and several trees around it. Lightning crackles, and the house glows blue and Mary stops in her steps for a minute.

What if this is the lair of the creature that kidnapped her?

Okay, she needs to be prepared. As she approaches the house, she sees that the windows overlooking the porch have weak light streaming out of them, and she takes a deep breath. So the house is inhabited. Hopefully by humans. She picks up a length of barbed wire and holds it gingerly, taking care not to hurt herself. She heads to the door and puts her ears against the wood to listen, and all she can hear is soft voices from inside. And then, with her heart thumping rapidly, Mary goes ahead and stops at the porch for a moment, before reaching shaking fingers to the doorbell.

She puts her ear to the door again, only to note that the voices have stopped. She waits for a couple of minutes, but no one answers the door.

Mary knocks this time. "Hello?"

There is more silence, and then footsteps. Mary leaps away from the door and a second later, it's opened, and, _oh God_ , Mary can't believe what she's seeing.

Except, John is much older. He's all salt-and-pepper and lines ( _how?_ ) and he looks tired, but determined and alert… and so _different_.

And he's staring at Mary just the way she's staring at him.

Mary's fingers loosen from around the barbed wire and it falls beside her feet. She opens her mouth, and shuts it. She's not sure what to make of this. Is this really John, or another trick of whatever creature has her? And if this is John, what's he doing here and why is he… _old_?

"Who is it?" asks a gravelly voice from behind John and John shifts, to reveal a man in a tan trenchcoat, who is wearing a frown, and has his hands crossed across his chest.

However, at the sight of Mary, the man's eyes widen and his hands drop. "Mary Winchester," he whispers.

Mary stares at him. Does she know this guy? She shakes her head, and turns to John. _Her_ John, because she can smell the Old Spice and leather and motor oil… and something else…

… Gunpowder?

John is blinking sluggishly at her. "Mary?"

"John?" she questions with a tremulous smile. Her ingrained training has her already thinking of escape routes as her gaze darts to her surroundings. She still can't believe what is happening. This can't be _her_ John, can it?

He chuckles. "Yeah."

And just like that, his arms are around her, pulling her close to him with a hunger that she's never actually seen in him. John holds her tight, thick arms enclosing her, and a hand going up to cup the back of her head, fingers clutching on to her damp hair.

"John," Mary whispers, realising the hold is too tight.

He doesn't seem to hear her.

"John?" she repeats, gentler, and he does let go. His eyes look bright in the moonlight, and Mary realises that the man behind him has been observing them all this while, without saying a word. He gives her strange vibes, and she's not sure she wants him watching them.

She turns her attention to John. "What's happening?"

His eyes widen. "What do you remember?"

"I…" she frowns, trying to remember, but her memory fails her. "I put Sammy to sleep. Dean kissed him goodnight and you took him to his room to tuck him in—" She is about to continue, when an alien voice interrupts her.

" _Mom_?"

Mary turns around, trying to see if someone else is standing behind her, because the voice that just spoke is adult, so obviously, it wasn't addressed to her. But then, another milder, equally adult voice speaks up.

"Mom?"

Mary tilts her head to observe two strange men, both gigantic in height, and holding on to each other, as though for support. She turns around again, to see if their mother followed her here, but one of the men seems familiar to her, and suddenly, Mary realises who he is.

"Dean…" she begins, and John's jaw starts to drop, when she remembers his full name. "Dean Van Halen."

" _What_?" John asks her, and she turns to him.

"We need to get out of here."

John shakes his head. "How did you know who he is? Who's Dean Van Halen?"

Mary takes his hand, and whispers. "We need to leave, John. I'll explain it to you. This man, he—" _He was there the day my parents died. The day I made a deal with the Yellow Eyed Demon. The day I brought you back from the dead._

"He's _Dean_ , Mary," John finishes for her. " _Our_ Dean."

Okay, this makes even less sense. First, John is _old_. And Dean… Dean's… gosh, a man in his late thirties, now? And he's a hunter too?

"Mary," John says, shaking her out of her thoughts. "We're in the year, 2016. These are our boys." He gestures to the giant men behind him. "Sam and Dean."

As if on cue, Mary feels a sharp ache in her chest and she sees two young men, in the kitchen of her house, both tearful, and her hand goes to cup the younger man's — Sam's cheek, as she whispers, "I'm sorry."

It's not a memory, and Mary doesn't know what it is. She just knows, somehow, that this is not the first time she's seen the guys behind John, and that they are, somehow, _Sam and Dean._

Mary frowns at her husband. That's it. This is a dream. This is a dream.

John's strong hand encloses her arm.

"You should come inside."

**~o~**

Mary's sight and presence seems to have made her husband and her sons forget about everything around them. All three of them gawk at her while she enters the house, and the hunter part of Mary's brain tells her that it's possible this is all an illusion — that maybe she's been attacked by a witch or a djinn. Although neither of those theories explains the presence of the trench coated stranger.

He has startling blue eyes, and something about him is not normal. He knew Mary without the need for an introduction — although Dean hobbles forward and speak to the guy. "Cas, this is Mom."

Cas is a strange name, and the guy lives up to the weirdness when he tilts his head and squints at Mary. "I know," he says, nodding. Then he smiles. "Good to meet you, Mary Winchester."

Mary looks towards Sam as he asks in a low voice, "Cas, you are sure it's her right?" Mary frowns at the emotion in his tone. It's like he's scared of knowing the answer.

"No," Cas replies. "But I don't think I should use my method to confirm, although I could do it if you insist."

"NO!" Sam and Dean say in unison, cringing.

And Cas nods. "Okay."

Mary watches them and remembers what John had said. They're in the year, 2016. Which means Dean is thirty-seven and Sam is thirty-three. And she and John are supposed to be, what… sixty-two? The only thing is, although Sam and Dean look their ages, she and John definitely don't. John is off by at least a decade and Mary… she's still in her nightie from 1983.

What the fuck is happening?

Mary is surprised when they ask her to take some salt and hand her a flask asking her to drink up. They're tests, she realizes. They want to know if she's human. But how is this happening? Her family doesn't know anything about hunting, or the creatures that roam this godforsaken earth. Her heart jumps to her throat as she thinks about her sons, her husband being involved with hunting. This can't be true.

…Right?

She keeps her thoughts to herself, vowing to clear up everything once her family is sure that she's not a supernatural creature. Although they could be supernatural creatures too. They test Mary with salt and holy water. Mary chokes down the salt, drinks the water, and looks at her family with a scrunched-up face. "How do I know that you're not—?"

She barely completes her sentence when Dean reaches for another rock salt shell, cuts it, and puts some into his mouth. Sam copies him. John just looks confused, but Dean gives him the salt.

"Test yourself for her, Dad."

John obeys, although he's still bewildered, and they pass the holy water and silver test too. Then Dean comes forward with a silver knife and Mary willingly extends her forearm to him. He is, however, reluctant to cut her.

Mary takes the blade from him. "I'll do it," she says softly. "I've done this a lot of times too, you know."

He nods, as he lets her have the knife, and then backs away, splaying his palm against the wall for support. Sam is standing behind him, nonchalant, but John interrupts Mary as she goes on to make the cut on her skin. _"What?"_

Mary turns to him, and John continues. "What do you mean?" he asks. "You've done this a lot?"

"I…" Mary turns again to Sam and Dean, who are looking at each other, understanding dawning on their faces.

"We'll explain," Dean replies, his voice gruff. And then he looks expectantly at the silver knife, and Mary understands at once why he is so eager. And she presses the blade against her skin, feeling the sting and watching dark blood bubble over before withdrawing it.

There is a beat of shocked, hopeful silence between her family. And when Mary's skin doesn't sizzle, she is positive she sees a light in all their eyes before Dean stumbles forward and hugs her.

Thanks to all the supernatural weirdness, he's older than she is, but he is still her child. Those bright green eyes, the smile, it's still the same but his soul is automatically a lot younger than hers, and when Mary holds Dean, he practically burrows his face into her shoulder, as though he's trying to bury himself in her and he feels so small… _Jesus_.

"Mom," he grunts, face still buried in the fabric of her nightie. He sounds… shattered. And Mary realises at that point that Dean is not all right, although she doesn't know what's wrong with him. She places a hand on his back and rubs it slowly. His clothes are loose for him — like he lost a lot of weight in a short while.

She rests her chin on his shoulder, remembering how Dean used to hug her like this as a child when he was hurt or upset or scared. But she can't kiss it and make it all better like she used to, and she wishes she could as she tightens her grip on him.

"Oh, honey," Mary murmurs, bracing the back of his head with her palm. "What's wrong, sweetheart?" _What's hurting you so badly? How can I make it better? Can I take your pain for you?_

"Mom," he repeats, his voice barely a whisper, and Mary cannot see John because he is standing behind her, but she can see Sam and Cas, and they look nothing short of devastated at the scene.

"Dean," Mary calls gently, stroking his hair, and turning around so she can press her lips to his temple. John walks around from behind her and she meets his eyes, hoping he'll tell her what's wrong, but he shrugs. She realises that he doesn't know either.

She strokes Dean's head again and turns to Sam, whose eyes seem slightly wet as he watches her and Dean. Sam sways a little. Beside him, Cas notices and grasps Sam's forearm to steady him. Mary realises then that her other son is hurting too, and her heart breaks a little more.

She places her hands on Dean's shoulder, gently pushing him, so he straightens and wipes surreptitiously at his eyes. He turns away, and Sam, after waiting for a moment, walks ahead and almost falls into Mary's arms.

He starts sniffling the moment she holds him, shaky exhales escaping him as he melts into her grasp. He must be well over six feet tall, but he's folded himself so much, she can pretend he doesn't feel much different from the baby she used to cuddle. Her heart warms as Sam fiddles with the neck of her nightie. He always used to do that as a six-month-old when she'd cradle him and talk softly to him, tell him how much he was loved. And, although she still doesn't know what that vision or flashback of her boys from before was, she wonders how she didn't recognise her boys when she saw them at first, because this is most definitely Sam and Dean, despite all fucked-up crap that's going on here.

Mary brushes Sam's hair back. It's soft to touch — just the same as when he was a baby, and she can almost smell the baby powder and hear his giggles from when she tickled his belly. She pats his wide back slowly and when he pulls away, she touches his cheek and brushes away the wetness with the pad of her thumb, while offering him a shaky smile.

"Hey, baby." She pauses and lets out a light laugh. "You're tall!"

And Sam chuckles — a wide, open chuckle with all his pearly whites flashing as he rubs at his eyes. "Yeah, yeah… Dean, uh…" he stops, obviously on the verge of talking about Dean's opinion about his height. Mary cups his face and pulls him closer, before planting a soft kiss on his cheek. He leans into her touch, shutting his eyes and bringing up a large hand to enclose her wrist gently.

Mary pats his face when he swallows, and she notices the pallor of his skin. She remembers how neither of them seem able to stand for too long without support. They're hurt. But how?

She can't help herself from asking Sam the stupid question, though. "You all right?"

He shakes his head. "No. But…" he glances at Dean, "I think… we will be. Eventually."

Mary notices how he isn't talking about just himself. The memory of her sons holding each other up a few minutes ago pops back up and she glances at them as they stand separately now, both leaning against the wall, with Cas standing between them.

She wonders what happened in the thirty-three years that she missed. And, oh, why did she miss thirty-three years in the first place?

She looks at her husband. "Can you tell me what happened? Why am I in the future?"

He licks his lip. "You aren't in the future."

"Then…?"

John sighs, and gestures to the couch. "You should sit, Mary, this is a long story."

**~o~**

Mary is still cold and very wet, but she doesn't give a damn once she's settled on the lumpy sofa in the house. Her sons sit next to her, one on each side, and they are silent as mice while John starts narrating the truth, all three of her men staring at her unabashedly, as though she hung the moon.

Mary listens numbly as she's told about how she died that night, on November the second, and how her boys grew up without her. When John begins to explain the supernatural to Mary, she has to stop him there.

"I know," she says quietly. "I'm a hunter too, John. Or, well, I used to be," she corrects herself. "My whole family hunted." She pauses. "Dean didn't tell you?"

John is speechless for a moment, but he composes himself, shakes his head slowly and turns to Dean. "You knew about this? When?"

Dean clears his throat. "I found out later on… after you'd died." He meets eyes with Mary briefly, before looking back at John. "Mom just wanted a normal life, Dad." He sounds defensive as he says it. But that's not what catches Mary's attention first.

"You _died_?"

She remembers holding John up when he'd died, his neck broken, and her heart beats fast at that. He died. Oh God, he died _again_.

"Yeah," says John. "There's a shaman. He brought us — you and me, back to life."

"Deal?" Mary asks quietly.

"No," Dean replies. "He needs Dad's blood. And I guess you're just…"

"An incentive," John finishes.

Okay. She needs time to process this.

She swallows. "How long, John?" she asks, without meeting eyes with anyone. She feels awful. Her boys have been alone. They've been alone all this time. Until today. And when she'd seen Dean as an adult the last time… he was not even thirty. Late twenties, probably. And Dean just said that he got to know about Mary _after_ John died. Which means that John's been gone for a while too.

"Ten years," Sam says quietly, and Mary's heart sinks to her stomach.

No wonder there was no 'I' and just a 'we' in what Sam had said before. Her boys had pretty much just had each other for a while now. But they've done well, and from the way they were offering each other support, they obviously trust each other. And Mary can't stop herself from taking alternate glances at them, because, oh, her little men, how they've grown.

Dean is an adult replica of what he was. He was a beautiful child, and she'd always known he'd grow up to be a heartbreaker. And he sits beside her, all bright green eyes and long eyelashes and freckles, and she wonders how many hearts he's actually broken already. His hair's darker than before, though.

And Sam. Sam has John's dimples, for the love of God, and he's so tall. And his hair — she never thought Sammy would turn out to be one of those people who'd grow out his hair. His eyes are slanting and just _lovely;_ and he looks so earnest, openly handsome, and oh, oh, her gorgeous little baby…

She remembers Dean's troublemaking and Sam's gurgling and she remembers how she'd wanted to watch them grow up and talk to them about their first crushes and girlfriends and go to their graduations and send them to college…

She'd missed all of it.

"You didn't get married?" Mary asks softly. "What did you do? Just hunted?"

"Pretty much," Dean explains. "We… we had to take out some pretty big fish… there's always something… we just couldn't…" but he looks up, and Mary traces his gaze to Cas, who is standing silently in the corner. There is something about the way Dean's looking at him, that's telling.

"Cas," Dean calls out to him, reaching out a hand.

The strange man obeys, and when he comes forward, Mary is a little surprised to see Dean fumble to take Cas's hand, hesitate, and then lock little fingers with him.

He turns to Mary. "His full name is Castiel. He's…" Dean's been so pale all this while, and Mary smiles when she spots the sudden flushing of Dean's face.

Dean clears his throat. "He's my boyfriend. And…" he shrugs, "he's pretty much the one who's helped keep me and Sam alive all these years."

So that's who's taking care of her boys.

Mary smiles wider at Dean, and turns to Castiel before holding out her hand. "It's nice to meet you. Thanks for being there for them."

Castiel releases his finger from Dean's grip and takes hers. "I feel the same way. And your sons are the brightest souls I have set my eyes upon. I have never seen two people so loving, forgiving and willing to do what they do for each other, or sacrificing what they give up for the good. It's been an honour to fight alongside them." And Mary's chest inflates with pride. Because, of course her boys are the best.

"So, uh…" Mary doesn't know what to say. This came sooner than she'd expected. She never thought she'd die and wake up thirty-three years later to do the boyfriend thing. And well — she had thought there'd be girlfriends, to be honest, but she's never been narrow-minded.

"He's…" Dean clears his throat. "He's an angel, Mom. And—" he pauses, chortling. "I'm talking about the real thing. Halo and wings and shit."

Mary tries to brush away the absurd image of her son romancing a winged creature, while Castiel speaks up. "I don't have my wings anymore." When Mary looks at Castiel again, he and Dean are tangling little fingers.

Mary now wonders where Sam's girlfriend is. Or does he have a boyfriend too?

John's been sitting quiet all this while, and Mary notices that he looks mildly disapproving about something. Mary doesn't know John as a hunter, and he's changed, but she used to know him very well, and she would bet everything on him not trusting Castiel. Probably because he's not human, but it could be something else. It's not the gay thing, though. Her boys obviously trust Cas, so Mary is not about to question this when she has no clue about what's transpired all these years. And if she's here to stay, she's going to talk to John about it too.

Mary lets out an involuntary shiver. Beside her, Dean moves immediately. "You must be cold," he says, eyes widening as he realises that his mother had been in a damp nightie all this time.

She smiles at him. "A little. It's just…"

"You can have one of my t-shirts," Sam says before she can complete her sentence. "And my sweats. They'll be kinda… big, but we'll get you some stuff in the morning before we take off for the hunt."

"Or you could have my stuff," Dean says, before Mary can reply to him. "I'm not as big as Sasquatch over there."

Sam gives Dean a dark glance, and Mary can see it brewing. She sighs. _Sibling rivalry, at their age?_ She thinks, and she imagines what they must have been like as boys.

"Why doesn't one of you let me borrow a tee?" she acquiesces. "The other one can get me sweats. Okay?"

Both of them scramble to their feet at once and both of them lose their balance. They look like a pair of gigantic idiots, and Mary's adoration and concern reach new levels. Castiel, like a true friend, comes forward and lends an arm to each, but Dean pushes him away and limps to the other side of the living room, while Sam leans heavily on him for a moment before walking away.

They return with their clothes and Mary excuses herself for a while so she can change in the dingy bathroom. Sam's t-shirt is huge, but comfortable, and Mary has to pull in the drawstrings of Dean's pyjamas really tight to get them to not slip down. She has to roll up the bottoms substantially as well, along with the sleeves of the t-shirt, which she tucks into the pyjamas. She uses one of the towels that her sons give her to dry her hair as much as she can, and then pulls it up in a loose bun. Once she's done, she leans against the cracked sink and checks her reflection out in the grimy mirror.

There are too many things that Mary has missed about her family. And, oh, there's a long way to go from here.

**~o~**

**_Sam_ **

The throbbing in Sam's head is increasing steadily. It's mostly at its nadir for now — but that's how Sam's migraines are. Crests and troughs. The pain is like a tsunami — either all there and completely awful, or simmering about and still awful. Gah, he really hates migraines. But then again, he doesn't reckon there are people who particularly enjoy getting migraines.

Sam knows that he should probably just go and take that Dramamine, but the possibility of missing even a moment with his mother is unacceptable to him. He doesn't know how Gan's magic works — if his parents are going to cease to exist again once then kill the shaman — and he just wants to know his mother as much as he can, while he can.

He remembers Dean telling him how she used to be — nurturing, caring, intuitive, and Sam finds that each one of those words is perfect for his mother. She's all that. And so much more. Sam doesn't think he can live with himself if she's just here temporarily, and has to go again.

His head pulsates some more. He has a moment to recognise the impending tsunami of agony and he isn't prepared for it when the wave crashes against him. Bricks fall on his brain and he grunts, leaning forwards with his head in his hands. He swallows convulsively _. No puking, no puking_. He hears Mary open the bathroom door and sits back up, the movement only causing more agony. _Stop throwing stones at my brain, you fucker._

"Ugh." The sound is involuntary, and it draws Dean's attention.

"Dude," he says to Sam, "just get some sleep already."

Sam shakes his head, and his father notices that. "Your mother isn't going anywhere for now, son," he says, and Sam is quite astonished at the gentle tone. "Like Dean says, you should get some rest."

"No," Sam mumbles, just as Mary comes back and sits down between them, looking small in their clothes. Sam inches slightly closer to her, blinking against blinding pain. And then a whole building seems to fall on his head and Sam grits his teeth as every fibre in his body screams bloody murder — _ka-boom, CRASH, and shit, shit, shitshitshit fuck fuuuuck, he's going to die._

"Uuuuhhh," he moans, unable to let out any of the expletives in his head because his mouth is barely coordinating with the rest of him.

_"Sam?"_

Dean is too loud. Too fucking loud.

And then there's an ice-pick. Someone puts the tip against his parietal lobe again. On the other side. The pain shifts.

_"Sammy?"_

Sam clutches his head in his hand, and that's the wrong move, because the ice-pick goes further inside.

_"What's happening? Is he having a vision?"_

_"No, Dad, it's a migraine, okay? A regular, fucking migraine."_

_"He gets visions?"_ Mary is talking in a soft voice already.

A pause. _"No, Mom. Not anymore. I'll explain."_

Dean and Mom talk in low voices, but the sound still jars against Sam's head. His dad, though, is just awful, asking half-assed questions that Dean shushes away. Sam thinks he hears himself whimper. How embarrassing.

A moment later, there's a hand in Sam's, small and soft.

"Just breathe, Sam."

Sam takes in a breath. The ice-pick eases, hangs in there loosely, before beginning to swirl about brain matter with its pointy end. Bile rises up Sam's throat.

_No. Go down. Go the fuck down. Won't puke. Won't puke, won't puke._

_"Is he going to be sick?"_

_"No, he's not."_ There's movement. A strong hand is on Sam's shoulder.

_Dean._

"Sam, we'll get you to the room, okay? You just gotta lay down some."

_No, no, I wanna talk to Mom._

"Sammy, you hearin' me?"

Sam nods his head as well as he can without moving it much. Two pairs of hands immediately hold onto him and raise him from the sofa. "No," he gasps, finally able to get a word out. The ice-pick twists around, wrapping brain mass around itself, and Sam hisses.

"Sam," Dean says warningly, although his voice is low.

"M-Mom…" Sam trails off, weakly pushing all the hands off him.

"Sam, don't be an idiot. You know how bad this shit gets if you don't rest."

Dean's hands are pulling at Sam again and he bats at them irately. "Wanna talk… t'Mom, okay?" Sam mumbles, opening his eyes and squinting up at his brother, his mouth feeling like a loose part of his face as he strings words together through the pain. _God, this sucks._ "St'p… bossing me 'round," he continues, "you're… always doin' tha'."

Dean is kneeling before him, and Sam sees a dark look pass his face as he sits back on his haunches. Dean tries to get back up, fails, and Castiel is there, but Dean shrugs him away and decides to stay where he is.

"Sure," he says, eyebrows going up, his gaze fixed on Sam. "I'm _bossing_ you around. That what you call it when I try to take care of you, now? Oh, no, don't answer that," he scoffs, "why am I even surprised?"

The ice-pick goes on to poke and prod behind Sam's eyes, but he opens them anyway. "Don't," he says to Dean. They've reached a temporary truce. And, right now… _not in front of Mom._

"Don't _what_?" Dean asks him. "I'm stating a fact here." Sam catches their mother looking at them, concerned, while behind Dean, John looks exasperated. "Anyway," Dean continues, "if I'd had that migraine, you'd have let me stew in it, right? Same circumstances, you wouldn't do the same thing?"

Why is Dean twisting Sam's words about? And after everything Sam did to save him, after everything he's doing to help Dean… doesn't Dean get that Sam was just hurt when he said all that shit? And they are on a respite. At least, a shaky one. Why is Dean intent on ripping it apart again?

"Yeah, yeah," Dean says, "I know what you're thinkin'. You saved my fucking life." His eyes are narrow. "Sure you did, Sam. Probably because you thought Abaddon was more important to stop — and maybe I just lived and you were lucky… or unlucky. I don't know. But you know what?" And Sam can feel a chill run down his spine when he sees Dean's expression. "It wouldn't have mattered much to you if I'd just died, so stop the drama."

That is too much for Sam to take. Ignoring the ice-pick that threatens to pop both his eyes out, he glares right at Dean. "You have a problem if I save your life, and you have a problem if I don't. So, Dean, why don't you just clarify everything here, so I don't keep disappointing you?"

" _Boys_ —"

It's John's voice, and Sam remembers the tone from the thousand silly fights that he and Dean had in their childhood. His mother looks shocked, and is too much out of the loop to say anything. Sam suspects she's still trying to figure out how close he and Dean have stayed.

Dean ignores their father. "Fine," he says. "I'll clarify." He pauses. "Just get the fuck out of here."

"What?" It's Mary this time. "Dean, honey—" her hand rests on Dean's shoulder, but he puts his large hand on it and interrupts her.

"You don't want to be a part of this family anyway, Sam," he says. "You don't want to be my brother. So if you were sticking around pitying me or somethin'… you can leave now. I've got other people in my life too." And Dean actually moves back, making way for Sam to get up and leave.

Sam's heart is beating in sync with his head. Dean hadn't raised his voice until now, and Sam knows he doesn't mean what he said. Because if he really wanted to hurt Sam, he'd have yelled it all out and Sam is pretty sure he's going to die if his head hurts any more.

Sam knows that Dean will apologise, and that Sam can just let it go — because he doesn't want this shitty fight to go on anymore. But he's not going to let his brother have that kind of relief.

He watches Dean through a curtain of red. Lightning sparks illuminate the room some more, and Sam's eye feels like its short-circuiting. And despite knowing that he probably can't make a really grand, dramatic exit the way he wants, Sam pushes Dean back and gets to his feet.

Dean lands on his ass, yelps, and the room shifts around Sam as he stumbles. His vision doubles dramatically.

"Sam!"

Castiel grips his forearm before he can face-plant and everything is a blur of colours, frantic voices, and two Castiels, until Sam finally regains his bearings.

"Sam," John says, and his father is standing next to him, as Mary helps Dean to his feet. Sam pushes John away, frees himself from Cas, and heads to the room.

"Where are you going?" Mary's voice follows him, and Sam feels guilty.

"Where Dean asked me to," he mumbles, and he hopes that if no one heard that, at least Dean did.

"Well, I ain't stopping him," Dean says, and Sam hobbles away, heart feeling heavy, when there are footsteps from behind him, and his shoulders are gripped by hands again.

"Oh, good, Cas," Dean's voice says again, sounding further away. "Take his side, why don't you?"

"Come on," Cas mutters in Sam's ear. "Just get some rest. I'll talk to Dean."

"He… want's…"

"You're unwell," Castiel says, stating the obvious, "and Dean is overwhelmed. You know more than anyone, Sam, that what he says isn't to be taken seriously."

Yes, Sam knows, and he doesn't tell Castiel how he reacted that way on purpose. When they reach the room with the sleeping bags, Sam almost collapses onto it, clutching his head in both hands and trying to swallow around the sudden lump in his throat. And he hears Castiel sit next to him, his silence saying everything that he won't say, namely that they're both idiots and they need to sort this crap out.

**~o~**

**_Dean_ **

Dean watches Sam and Cas stagger away, and tries to quell his guilt. Did Sam mean that? Is he leaving for real?

Dean's only consolation right now is that Sam is too sick to move too much. So he probably won't leave _now_ , although, knowing Sam, he is very capable of it once he's feeling better. He's a drama queen that way. Dean's little brother always waits until the last minute to explode and gives Dean a few heart attacks while doing so.

Dean shudders at the word. _They_ ruined it for him.

_"You're such a pretty little bitch, Winchester…"_

_No_. He fights the memory away. Not now, not in front of Mom.

Speaking of…

Dean's mother is looking at him with a startled expression. Dean meets her eyes, and the guilt goes up a notch. He sits back on the couch and grunts, his hips protesting the movement after Sam's push. The rough landing had caused pain to flare up in Dean's legs and hips. Dean hasn't told Cas about their soreness during the healing sessions. Dean doesn't want him to know. He doesn't want Sam to know either. He doesn't want anyone to know how maimed he is. How _impure_. How _dirty_. Unclean. Damaged goods.

Cas deserves so much better: someone who won't cringe every time they're touched; someone who doesn't get those fucking panic attacks and nightmares; someone who doesn't flinch and who isn't uncomfortable in his own skin; and definitely someone better. A much, much better person that Dean, who won't hurt sick little brothers for the heck of it.

"Dean, you should apologise," Mary says softly.

He turns to her again. But what does she know? She's only seen one side of it. She wasn't there when Sam ran away to Flagstaff. When he left for Stanford. When he drank Ruby's blood and lied about it. When his heaven didn't consist of any memories of his family. When he never looked for Dean while Dean was in Purgatory. When he said that he and Dean weren't brothers anymore.

Dean's throat is clogged, and he feels the weight of all those memories as they come rushing back to him. His mother's hand is on his cheek, thumb rubbing away at wetness Dean didn't realise was there in the first place.

"Baby," she says, "I don't know what happened. But he's your brother, and you should talk to him."

Dean sniffs. "Yeah," he says, his voice hoarse. "I will. And I will apologise too, Mom." He pauses, blinking at his mother. "But I will do it when he does it first."

He gently frees himself from his mother's grip. He is hurting all over and he needs to lie down. He needs to think, too.

So he stands up shakily and starts walking away, feeling his parents' eyes on him as guilt overwhelms his senses again.


	8. Outing Him

** Six: Outing Him **

****

**_Mary_ **

Dean's walking away leaves behind a feel of emptiness in the living room of the drafty house. Mary looks around, shivers, and wonders why they're _squatting —_ because, well, this definitely doesn't seem to be their house. No one here is at ease or familiar with the place, and that proves it all. Plus, this is terrible living conditions for anyone, and yes, Mary is pretty sure that her men are squatting. How did it come to this?

She has bigger questions in her head, though. The electric lamp on the rotting wooden coffee table flickers once, but continues to glow. Mary blinks at it, and then clears her throat.

"Do they — did they always fight like this?" She's jealous of John, now. He got to know them for so much longer. Mary wishes she didn't have to ask about her boys and figure out things about them. She wishes she could look exasperated, like John, and shake her head, but the things Sam and Dean said to each other are far from anything that happens in regular brotherly fights. Her sons also don't look good; they're hurt — physically, psychologically— and are wounding each other further.

John takes a while to answer, but then he does. "They did bicker sometimes before… but…" he turns to Mary, "they were always a team, you know."

"So it's never been this bad."

He sighs. "Not that I know of. But their lives — _our_ lives were easier then. Sam says that they've dealt with some real bad crap since I've been gone. You know how things get when there's too much pressure. But you know, Dean always took care of Sammy. Sammy always came back for Dean — it didn't matter how long he was gone for. They have their own world and they don't necessarily let anyone in."

"I can see that," whispers Mary. Sam and Dean must really, really trust Castiel, then. "But Sam…" she continues, "he's just like that because of the migraine, right? He'll be okay?"

John gives her a sad look. "Honestly, Mary, he didn't look all that good even before the migraine."

"And," Mary bites her lip. "Who's Abaddon?"

"I don't know," he replies. "But I intend to find out." He looks away, twiddling his thumbs, before making to get up.

"Where are you going?" asks Mary.

He shrugs. "Shouldn't we — go tell them to shut up or something?"

"Castiel is there. I'm sure he'll know what to do for them." And just like Mary expects him to, John makes a face at the name of the angel.

Mary smiles. "You don't like him."

"He gives me the creeps," John admits. "He's always squinting and tilting his head, Mary."

"And it's not just that," Mary prods him.

Her husband purses his lips. "There's the angel thing…"

"Aha!"

What?"

"I knew it!"

John looks at Mary, stunned, before his features break into a smile. "You might be the only one in the family who doesn't think I'm homophobic."

"Oh, you're so not homophobic," Mary says. "From what I've seen of my boys, I doubt they'd even keep you around if you were a homophobe."

He chuckles. "You're right on that point. They're pretty hard-headed. But you should know that as long as I was alive, Dean had only had girlfriends. Now I'm not so sure if they were all girls, but I was quite worried that I was going to be a grandpa at a very young age."

"So he was a heartbreaker," Mary whispers.

"The biggest one," John chortles. "And Sammy…"

"Was he one too?" Mary enquires. Because Sam seems so soft, so sweet, so earnest, it's not possible that he was like Dean. Or maybe Mary judged him wrong.

"No," John replies, cutting through her thoughts. "Dean was always giving him dating tips and stuff." He pauses. "He had a girlfriend in college. Apparently, he was going to ask her to marry him."

"What happened?"

John looks away, his face turning towards the window. "On November second, 2005, she died. The same way that you did."

It takes Mary a moment to process this. And then, like a ton of bricks falling on her, it hits her. Her throat clogs up and she swallows, willing away the tears that threaten to form, just at the thought of Sam's pain. Mary looks down and plays with a loose thread on Dean's sweatpants. The deal she made to bring John back really screwed everyone up. So much for wanting normal… Mary couldn't even let go of her then-boyfriend and grieve him like a regular person.

"Our family's always been fucked up, Mary," John says in a hushed tone. "I could never keep the boys happy. I couldn't give them the lives they wanted. They ended up having to deal with shit they wouldn't have had to experience if it weren't for me." He pauses. "But I'm not sorry about making them hunters."

John looks directly into Mary's eyes, his expression guilty, but his stand solid. "When I started closing in on Azazel — the demon that killed you," he says, "I found out that it was probably for the best that Sam and Dean were hunters. That I'd trained them. Or they… they would've died."

That answers Mary's other question too — about why John became a hunter. Yet, she can't help but think that her whole family being in this business is pointless — just painful and unnecessary. Because normal had been a lot better. Even the ten years of it that she'd had. But she doesn't want to argue with John for now. Not when he's overwhelmed by her return and the boys, and Castiel… and everything.

She moves closer to John's armchair and puts a hand on his shoulder. "Hey."

And he smiles hesitantly at her, and then wider, when he realises that Mary isn't going to give him a hard time over his choices. Mary smiles back, and cups his chin, rubbing her thumb over his lips. John brings up his hand to enclose hers and kisses her palm, soft lips brushing against her skin.

Mary has a sudden thought at this, and she laughs, making John look up from kissing her hand. "What's funny?"

Mary giggles again, and shakes her head. "You know," she says, "we should have guessed. If one of us was ever going to rock the boat, it was Dean."

John laughs a deep, low laugh. "He was always the troublemaker. He did it without knowing it, and it was all the time. You never got mad at him for it either."

"It was cute!" Mary protests. "He was the cutest fucking kid, okay?"

"Yeah, he was," John agrees. "We had a lot of fun with the kid, right?" he adds wistfully.

Mary nods. "And how was Sam?"

"Quiet," John answers. "Understanding. Sincere. And he worshipped Dean. He always…" and John breaks away, displaying his dimples, "he had these huge, puppy eyes. He could melt metal with those."

"I missed all of it…"

John's hand encloses Mary's. "It wasn't your fault."

Mary lets him think that, feeling guilty herself. There's silence, except for the constant rain outside. Mary looks at her husband.

"I think we should go and talk to them now."

"I thought you said that we should let Castiel handle this."

"Yeah," says Mary, "but we'd be really shitty parents if we don't smack the back of their heads just once and ask them to get over it."

John chuckles. "You're right. Come on."

He takes her hand and together, they head to the room where their boys are.

**~o~**

**_Dean_ **

He probably looks like a four-year-old throwing a tantrum, but Dean doesn't care. He figures he has a right to be pissed. After all these years of pain and anguish, and of knowing how much keeping secrets has only made it worse for them, Dean feels like Sam and Cas keeping things from him isn't justified.

He sits in a corner of Sam's room, eyeing Cas, who seems to be taking Sam's side a lot more than his. Castiel is sitting next to Sam who is curled up on his side, forehead furrowed in pain. And for some goddamn reason, it hurts Dean a lot more than it should.

As much as Dean pushes Cas away, he needs him. Goddammit, he needs Cas and he's not okay with that, but it's the truth. And, and… Dean's so afraid of his boyfriend and his little brother finding out _exactly_ what happened in those horrendous months, that—

 _No. Don't think about it,_ Dean mentally tells himself.

It's ironic how he himself is harbouring a secret. But as far as he can tell, it's not hurting anyone. The less they know, the better.

Sam and Cas, though. Dean sighs. He's just tired of being left out, tired of being looked on as an invalid, as a broken, empty man.

And, _fuck_ , they didn't tell him anything because he was _still healing._

Bullshit.

Dean sighs as he brings his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them, resting his chin on his knees. He also feels guilty. So, so guilty. He can't erase the look on Sam's face when he had yelled at him after their mother had arrived.

Dean wasn't trying to be rude. But the way Sam had reacted to him trying to help; it had just touched a nerve. All the memories of his fights with Sam came flooding back and Dean was tired of trying to make things better between him and Sam. It's been a decade and nothing ever seems to change. They cannot agree with each other anymore and Dean thinks he and Sam have spent more time fighting and wounding each other than trying to be brothers. And after everything they've been through, this shouldn't be happening. Not like this.

After all those months of being possessed and going through physical and mental hell, when he had been rescued, Dean had felt like he'd got his brother back. Like they had a new beginning. Like there was a light at the end of the tunnel. Apparently he was wrong.

Dean jerks out of his thoughts as Castiel murmurs, "Dean?"

And as suddenly as they'd gone away, the feelings of hurt and betrayal are back. "What?" Dean asks, trying to sound nonchalant. He watches as Castiel starts to get up, and it clicks. "No," Dean says. "You can stay where you are. Besides, you two seem to be a better team anyway."

A little bit of guilt begins to worms its way through Dean as Cas's face falls and he shifts his gaze from Dean to the floor, his fingers playing with the edge of Sam's sleeping bag. Dean looks away, not wanting any of this to affect him. Sam and Cas don't need to look so sad and guilty. They deserve it.

… Right?

There's silence, except for the sounds of nature from outside. The birds are up and are chirping about as the sky outside begins changing colour from black to a deep grey. The thunderstorm has cleared away too, although Dean doesn't know how that escaped his notice until now. He leans against his wall. They're going to start on the case in a while, and he hasn't slept. How on earth he's going to concentrate and be sharp when he kills Gan, Dean doesn't know. He's lost practice.

The next moment, there is a moan. Dean's eyes flash towards Sam who groans audibly and struggles to get to his feet.

Dean is half out of his corner to help when he realises that Cas has already helped Sam to his feet. Dean watches Sam let go of Cas, and practically fall into the bathroom. Worry creeps into Dean and he puts his differences aside, just wanting his brother to be all right.

His thighs still hurting from the unceremonious push Sam had given him, he limps towards the bathroom. He tries to ignore the fact that Cas reaches out to help steady him but withdraws his hands half way.

It shouldn't hurt, because he's supposed to be pissed at Cas. But goddamn, it hurts. Quite a bit. Fucking _stings_.

Shoving the thought to the back of his head, Dean walks into the bathroom, trying not to groan as his thighs protest when he kneels down next to Sam. Wincing at the horrible retching, he lightly rubs Sam's back, feeling bad for how he acted earlier. He should have realised that Sam's migraine would come to this point. Kid can have some pretty fucked-up luck sometimes — migraine on a hunt, for example.

Dean's heart clenches as silent tears stream down Sam's face while he retches over and over, expelling whatever he's eaten. Getting up again, Dean hobbles to his duffle, takes out a washcloth he's kept in there and comes back into the bathroom to hold it under the tap for a few seconds.

A cool washcloth on the back of Sam's neck always calms him a little. After wringing out the excess water, Dean kneels back down and carefully puts it on Sam's neck, his hand resting on Sam's shoulder. He hears a barely whispered thanks and Dean can't help but smile a little.

"What's going on?"

Dean turns towards the door to see his father and mother standing outside, concerned expressions on their faces. He feels Sam tense under his hand.

"It's fine, Dad. Migraine." Dean doesn't have to explain it further, because John has seen Sam suffer through these. Before his parents can say anymore, Dean shoots them an apologetic look and shuts the bathroom door.

He then turns to Sam. "You okay?"

Sam manages a nod.

"You sure? I don't think it's been this bad for a while now," Dean worries.

He's taken aback when Sam pushes Dean's hand off of his shoulder. "I'm fine, Dean. Jus' need sleep. It'll go 'way."

"Dude, I'm trying to help you here," Dean argues, hurt at Sam's reaction.

Sam ignores him while he struggles to get to his feet. Dean's every attempt at helping him is futile as Sam remains stubborn, batting Dean away. Dean tries to not let his anger get the best of him, and he watches as his brother shakily opens the door and steps out to their worried parents and Cas.

Sam stumbles and Dean reaches out to steady him. Once again, Sam pushes his hands off. "Dude, what is your problem?" Dean snaps, still keeping his voice low.

"Okay, that's it. I've seen enough," John speaks suddenly. Dean knows that he'd been watching them silently, but he hadn't expected this. Maybe he should have. Meanwhile, John puffs out a plume of breath. "I need to talk to you boys." He points to the area before him. "Stand here."

Sam swallows. "Yes, sir." He obeys John, and Dean follows. Funny, since it would have been the exact opposite a decade ago.

Dean refuses to look at Sam or his father as he stares at the floor, a feeling of déjà vu creeping up on him. Whenever he and Sam used to fight as kids, this is exactly what John would do. Make them stand next to one another and sort it out. Little does John know now, that it's not a small fight over whose turn it is to watch the TV anymore.

 _God,_ Dean wishes it was that small of an issue.

"Now, I don't know what the hell is going on here, but you two need to sort your crap out," John says sternly, pulling Dean out of his reverie.

Mary seems shocked as she exclaims, "John!"

"No, Mary. They've had all sorts of fights like this before. It just gets worse when they don't sort it out."

"No," Dean says quietly. Because, well, no. Their quarrels have never been this bad before. This is a whole new level of crap. But their dad has no idea this time. This isn't just a small thing that happened over a day. It's been going on months… years.

" _What_?" John asks, looking confused.

"You don't know what's going on, Dad," Sam speaks up. "It's not what you think."

As much as Dean doesn't want to agree with Sam right now, he too says, "Yeah. It's not what you think it is."

"Oh, really? And what do I think?" John retorts.

There is a beat of silence before Sam mutters, "You screwed us up."

"Sammy!" Mary says, looking shocked.

Dean can't believe his ears as he stares at his brother. They _just_ got their parents back. From the dead. _Literally._ And the kid still holds his grudge. Seriously, can't Sam be fucking grateful? How many hunters can say that they got to meet their family, when most of them are in the business because some fugly murdered a family member? Does Sam even value this, what he's got now?

Obviously, Sam's never valued anything. Not what Dean's done for him, and not what their parents have done for him. He only whines and complains and gets pissed, and then runs away from everything that spells 'family'. Sam needs his space or freedom or whatever, Dean gets it, but he doesn't understand how selfish he's being.

Sam is so fucking selfish.

Dean can't stop himself, "Oh, no. Don't you start blaming him just 'cause you're pissed."

"Really, Dean? You still want to think I'm angry for nothing? After all this?" Sam retaliates.

Dean can't take it anymore. Really? _Really_? Does Sam want to go there? He is _such_ a selfish bastard. Dean is not going to be so sympathetic anymore.

All care and concern flies out the window, as he squints up at Sam. "Enough, okay?" he says, voice rising a notch. "If you want to go there, Sam, we'll go there. I swear. You wanna talk about everything? How about when you drank demon blood and did all that crazy shit behind my back with Ruby when I got back from Hell?

"How about the time you deliberately didn't listen to me and went after Lilith?! Released the goddamn Devil? How about the time you let me turn into a fucking vampire? The fact that you didn't look for me when I was fighting to live every damn day in Purgatory?

"I sold my soul for you, I fucking died for you. I know I screwed up with Gadreel, all right? But I did it to save you. And you know what? I did it despite all the crap you've done to me. And okay, I made a mistake — and you think you're oh so smart, behaving like I was fucking trying to hurt you on purpose."

"Dean—" Sam's voice is pained, but Dean ignores him.

"I did _everything_ for you, Sam. Everything," He scoffs. "I guess it's just my luck that you don't know how to thank me." He looks at Sam, who is still blinking at him, and Dean feels a sudden build of fury — a fire burning inside him and before he knows it…

"Dean!"

Sam's collar is in Dean's grip, and Sam is pressed against the wall. A hand is on Dean's shoulders, pulling him away, but all he is seeing, is red. He grits his teeth and watches Sam's pained expression. "You happy now, you son of a bitch? You grateful? You wanna say something else? Because screw you!" He pulls Sam and bangs him against the wall.

"That's it—"

Another stronger pair of arms are pulling him. Sam's collar slips away from Dean's fingers but he scrabbles at thin air, a low snarl escaping his lips, as he yells. "SCREW YOU, SAM!"

Dean wants to say something else — anything. He wants to fucking hurt Sam. Rip his stupid hair off. And he wants to—

Dean's temper drains away when he takes one good look at Sam, who suddenly goes to his knees, clutching his head. Mary rushes to his side and Dean realises what he's done. He was yelling. He fucking made it worse for Sam.

Everything he's just bellowed to his brother's face comes rushing back and it feels like a one ton block of guilt has settled over his shoulders. Crap, he didn't just say all that. He shouldn't have. Not in front of… not when their parents are here and fuck… this is wrong.

_Oh, God, what has he done?_

He realises that the hands on him aren't there anymore. John is standing beside Mary, flabbergasted, as Castiel is crouched before Sam. Dean stumbles forward and Castiel jumps before Sam, ready for more restraining, but Dean gets down on his knees too. "Oh, God, Sammy, I'm—"

"Don't," Sam chokes out, not even looking at Dean. "Just don't…p-pretend, ple'se. I-I can't believe you. After…after everything I did for you. I've screwed up. I k-know. But don't you dare c'll me ungrateful. I've been nothing but grateful to you, Dean. Whether or not you believe me.

"I did everything, okay, _everything_ f-for you. And I kn-know…" he looks up at Dean eyes holding pain and sorrow as he swallows, "I know it-it was b-bad for… you." He takes a sharp breath. "But you d-don't know how much… how much…" He bites his lips and looks down.

"I know it's not much, but I m-managed to get you back. Get r-rid of Abaddon. And… and C-Cas was in a bad shape, and it w-wasn't easy, okay? But fuck, man, Dean, I didn't care. I just wanted you home." He sighs, meeting eyes with Dean again. "You think I'm ungrateful?"

Dean jaw clenches, seeing the unshed tears in Sam's eyes.

Sam makes to stand up. "Fine, then. This is me b-being grateful. Thanks, D-D'n. Thanks f-for everything," he whispers, voice cracking at the last word. He is on his feet again when he pushes through his parents weakly and stumbles out of the room.

Dean looks towards Cas who is watching Sam go with sadness reflecting from his blue eyes.

And Dean just can't take it anymore.

He's made mistakes. Yeah, he's fucked shit up. But so has Sam, right?

"Dean—" Cas starts to say but Dean holds up his hand.

"No. If you're asking me to go after him, I'm not gonna do that. You can go if you want. You're all taking his side anyway. I'm just fucking stuck here, like an invalid, right, Cas?" Dean snaps. Cas shakes his head, but doesn't reply. Dean feels a pall of hopelessness fall over him.

"Y'know what?" he says, "all of you can go away. Just leave me the hell alone."

"Dean…"

"LEAVE!"

Dean watches as they slowly file out of the room, leaving him in complete silence. He slides down to the floor, hands clutching his hair. Tears run races silently down his cheeks as he breaks at the unfairness of it all.


	9. Interlude: The Hunt

** **

 

**Interlude: The Hunt**

 

**_Sam_ **

The only time Sam remembers feeling completely, utterly hopeless— despite knowing everything about Dean's situation and whereabouts— was when Dean had been taken away and possessed by Abaddon. He remembers _that_ day, clearer than anything else in his life, when Abaddon had nabbed Dean. It's too clear to go away. It's too palpable to be forgotten.

**_A few months ago_ **

They are in Missouri, following a lead about demons. It's a simple case, and after the kinds of demons they've already dealt with, this should be a piece of cake. Trap the victim, exorcise him. They have reached the town, but before they can get a motel room, Dean wants a lunch break, so they end up in a greasy-looking diner.

After ordering a bacon cheeseburger for himself, Dean leaves to use the bathroom. Sam requests the Hawaiian Chicken salad and leans back on his seat, waiting for Dean.

Dean never returns from the toilet.

The rest of it is like a flash and a flurry. Sam looks for Dean in the washroom and in the general vicinity, and when he can't find Dean anywhere, he works on the demon lead in the town because he expects the demon to have taken his brother. After a day, he realises that the hunt is a bust. There is no demon, and the suspicious markings and leads they followed had only been some fucked-up kid's idea of a joke.

Dean is still nowhere to be found. Nowhere.

He stays on in the town and looks for Dean for two weeks. He runs low on cash from motel expenditure, so he skips meals because he can't bear to take out time to hustle pool — can't even _pretend_ to enjoy when his big brother is missing.

For the whole of these two weeks, Sam somehow keeps Castiel from knowing about what's happened to Dean because he doesn't want the angel to worry, and he explains Dean's absence with lies and excuses — _"Cas, man, he's really pissed off. You know what kind of crap the Mark's doing to him. I'll ask him to call you later, yeah?"_

Castiel, though suspicious, doesn't question the lies. Instead, he is understanding, and he tells Sam to request that Dean talk to him when Dean is feeling up to it. And he's heartbroken when Dean never seems to call. When Sam doesn't get anything on Dean even after fifteen days, he finally calls Castiel for help. And he apologises profusely for lying to Cas.

Sam feels as if Castiel's forgiveness is undeserved kindness. He returns to the bunker, having established that Dean is not in Missouri anymore, and, together, he and Castiel look for leads on Dean, sitting up day and night, burning through coffee and whiskey. They are largely unsuccessful.

A month goes by, and then forty-five days. There is nothing on Dean. _Nothing_.

One day, Sam is sitting in the library at the bunker, sleep deprived, when Castiel approaches him sadly.

"Sam…"

"No, Cas."

"Sam… he…" _might be dead._

And no, no, Dean is not dead. Fuck Cas and the demons and everyone else. Dean is fucking alive. Because Sam would _know_. Sam would know…

"He's not dead," Sam whispers before standing up, flicking off the lamp, and returning to his room for another terrible, dream-riddled attempt at sleep.

**~o~**

It's like a real-time nightmare. Even when Sam tries not to think about it, he remembers it all, like a tape playing in his head.

He feels himself shrink. His arms grow thinner, his stomach begins to cave, his cheeks begin to hollow… and yet, he goes on. His stomach growls, craving food when he avoids meals for the first few days, and then it gets used to it. Sam just eats enough to keep himself running and alive, but otherwise, he doesn't waste time on food. He goes to the places that he and Dean have visited — even where they had their less successful hunts — and he asks about his brother, but there's no Dean. No hunter friend has seen Dean either. Someone suggests that Sam file a missing persons report. But damn if Sam is risking Dean going to jail once he's found. When Sam finds Dean, he's fucking going to kill his brother for disappearing on him.

 _If he's not dead already,_ says a nasty voice in Sam's head, and he pushes it away.

**~o~**

Finally, on the second month, Sam gets a lead. A gigantic lead. There is a murder in Colorado. A gory, terrible one. And the murderer is said to have killed the cops trying to catch him. And Jesus, the bodies — they're all gutted with blood everywhere. Sam cringes when he sees the photographs that the detective-in-charge shows him. No one knows who the murderer is, but Sam's gut tingles every time he thinks of it.

He is sure of it. Sam goes as an FBI agent, checks every bit of evidence he can, _scours, scours, scours_ , and finally finds what he's looking for. Dean was at the crime scene. The detectives don't suspect him because they haven't looked where Sam has, and don't know what Sam does. And Dean's face is on the traffic camera — inconspicuous and grainy, but Sam can recognise his brother anywhere.

There are more murders of the same kind, and Sam never finds Dean's face again, but he knows that it's Dean. Well, not _Dean_ , but Sam has a fair idea of what is happening. So he actually deigns to call Crowley.

"Which one of your asshole minions is possessing my brother?" he demands, shaking his fist, even though he knows that the demon can't see him.

"They're not my people," Crowley says calmly. "And I tried to get hold of Squirrel, I did. But I was forced to stop because he was in the danger of being killed."

"Why?" Sam asks him, bewildered. "And how long have you known about his possession?"

"I knew since the first day. And it's Abaddon who's got him," Crowley replies. "She's the one who's possessing him."

Sam doesn't ask Crowley why he didn't say this before. There's no point arguing with a fucking demon. Instead, he takes a sharp breath. "Is Dean alive? Not his body — his—"

"He's hanging in there," Crowley says. He pauses. "Get that bitch, Moose."

**~o~**

Sam doesn't exactly have Crowley on his side (because he's a fucking cowardly son of a bitch), but he does get Crowley's help. He continues to look for his brother, night and day, day and night. The sun comes up, goes down, and Sam barely moves from his place in the library of the bunker, hunched over his laptop.

Castiel gets worried for Sam. He even confesses to Sam that he is in love with Dean, and explains that he won't stop looking for him, and that Sam can relax because Cas won't give up on Dean either. Sam's heart only manages to break more. Castiel tries to take care of Sam, tries to get him to eat, to sleep, but Sam's too restless for any of it. He can't just sit there, eating good, healthy food when he knows what Abaddon is making his brother do. It's not hard to guess, from all the blood-drained infants. The thought itself makes Sam want to gag.

As for sleep, how can he sleep when he knows Dean feels trapped and helpless, when he knows Dean is probably struggling to get out, scratching at the walls while he watches himself do terrible things? It reminds Sam of his own experience with Lucifer, with Meg, and the moment he shuts his eyes, he is attacked by the nightmares that never actually went away, but are stronger now, thanks to the constant loop of disturbing thoughts and fears in Sam's mind.

Somewhere in the fourth month, it starts affecting his physical wellbeing as well, and Sam finds himself developing terrible headaches. They're not migraines, but they're headaches, nonetheless. Sam can handle any headache that's not a migraine — so he pops two Advil and takes tiny naps to keep them away.

Sometimes his ears ring and sometimes his chest sears with pain. His heart gets restless, going _thump, thump, thump_ and making him breathless, and he ignores it, shuts in all the emotion, and gets back to work. He notices that Castiel's grace is giving him trouble. Sam talks to him about it, and Castiel confesses that his grace is draining away. It's physical agony for Castiel, and Sam can see it. So he refuses to let Castiel take on too much. He gets Castiel to rest, and ensures that his friend is okay, while promising himself that he won't let Dean down.

Still, Sam almost lets Dean down again.

It starts one fine morning with a nosebleed that won't stop, which is accompanied by one of those irritating headaches. Sam's chest hurts, his heart flutters some more, and suddenly, there's a string of blood seeping out of his left nostril. He bends over a sink, tries to exhale it out forcefully, but it continues to stream, his head throbbing right along. He can feel some of it gush down the back of his throat even though he's leaned over, and he pinches the bridge of his nose to try and stop the bleeding.

It doesn't help but the bleeding does stop, and leaves Sam lightheaded and nauseated in its wake. He feels saliva pool in his mouth and he bends over the sink again and retches, only to puke up the blood that had entered his stomach from the nosebleed. The sight, taste and smell of it makes him feel worse but he rinses his mouth, washes his face, steadies himself, and leaves to get back to the library to continue research.

His feet feel heavy and numb and he can barely move, and Castiel notices it.

"Sam, are you—?"

"I'm good," Sam lies, as he approaches the table. "Just a little tired. Is there anything in the papers?"

Castiel nods sadly and hands over the newspaper to Sam, who reads the headlines. Dean (Abaddon) is always in the headlines these days, and it was stupid to hope that there would be nothing today. So he sighs, seats himself at the table, reaches for a pair of scissors, and cuts up the article. He then goes up to the cardboard rectangle he's put up on a wall and pins the article, writing down Dean's location in big words: _Charleston, South Carolina._

He's returning to his seat when it all goes downhill. He feels like his right side isn't working and the numbness increases. Sudden, unexplained terror hits him as his heart starts to palpitate again and everything begins to spin.

"Cas," he calls out, the word sounding heavy and slurry when it comes out of his mouth. He hears a chair being pushed away, and a distant voice.

"Sam?"

He's falling, and he can't feel his right leg. His face feels weird on the right too, and suddenly, hands are holding him up.

"Sam? Sam, what's happening? What's wrong with your mouth?!"

He doesn't hear the rest of it as unconsciousness comes to claim him.

**~o~**

_"… Sudden increase in his blood pressure caused an intracerebral bleed…"_

_"… Can't tell what the deficits could be, unless he wakes up…"_

_"…Stroke…"_

_"… Much too young. Any family pressures…?"_

Sam wakes up in bits and pieces, vision flashing between white and black. He can hear the things that the people around him are talking, but he can hardly make out the meaning of their words. It's like he's listening from deep below… miles away from the bottom of an ocean. Everything hurts on his left side, and his right side feels heavy and powerless.

When he does open his eyes, there is a flurry of activity around him. He tries to turn his head, but it hurts. And he wonders where Dean is, until he hears a familiar, gravelly voice from close to him.

"… 'Am?"

He's not sure what Cas is saying, and he turns around, somehow, blinking at Cas, who is speaking in garbled noises. What is wrong with him? Why is Cas like this?

 _Cas, are you okay?_ He wants to ask, but when he opens his mouth, he garbles right along with Cas. It's a different language than what he intends to speak.

He realises then, that he'd have liked it if Dean were here. He wants Dean to shut this nonsense out, take him back to the bunker, and reassure him that they'll deal with it, using their own stack of meds, and that hospitals are unnecessary. That Sam will be okay. That he needs to rest, and that's all. Sam wants the stupid kitchen sink stew and Dean's idiotic, unintentional mother henning, making fun of whatever alien language that Sam is speaking right now, but being concerned about it all the same.

_He misses Dean._

Sam will fucking kill himself before Dean gets to know about this, but he fucking misses Dean and he wants to get Dean back right now from that _bitch_ , and he wants to fucking kill her and hear her scream…

"'Am…?"

"Sa…m?"

People are calling out to him? Why?

Is Dean here? Did Castiel find something? Is Sam dreaming?

And there's the blackness again, casting a pall over his eyes and there are hands, voices… and he's out of it again.

**~o~**

Sam discovers later on that he's had a stroke. It followed a hypertensive crisis. Sam has never actually had hypertension in his life, and he doesn't know much about family history — except that Dean and his dad didn't have it. But his BP keeps going up in spasms during his stay in the hospital and the doctors stroke their beards and put their heads together.

They ask Sam everything about his life (and they talk slowly, loudly, clearly, because Sam can't understand otherwise). Sam tells them as much as he can, and he has to write it all down with his _left_ hand because his right hand won't fucking work, and he can't talk. But he gives them as much of the truth as he can.

The doctors also ask Sam about any stresses he's dealing with, and Dean's name lights up like a neon sign in his head but he can't exactly tell them all of it, so he settles for a half-truth, about Dean having been kidnapped (four? five?) months ago. They buy it. This also leads them to a diagnosis for Sam: he has a _pseudophaeochromocytoma_.

It sounds like its made-up, but it's not. Sam can't understand how he can have a pseudo _tumour_ in him (because a tumour either there or not there, and Sam knows that anything with – _oma_ stands for a tumour). The doctors tell him that he's exhibiting symptoms of phaeochromocytoma, an adrenal gland tumour, but that they believe that Sam's been having frequent attacks of hypertension due to the recent stress in his life, and his inability to cope properly with it.

And—fuck them—he is coping, but apparently, Cas doesn't think so either, because he tells them exactly that in the meeting.

The doctors prescribe Sam meds, advise him to keep monitoring his BP, and promise to discharge him soon with references to a physiotherapist and a speech therapist. However, when they leave, Sam turns his head to Castiel, to ask Castiel to continue looking for Dean, when he feels Castiel's fingers on his forehead.

When Cas removes his hand, Sam can feel his right side, and his mouth and face are normal again. Sam is about to ask what just happened, when Castiel smiles at him. A small, hopeful smile.

"Better?" he asks Sam.

Sam nods. "Yeah. Thanks. Cas, your grace…"

"It's okay," Castiel replies. "Sorry I couldn't do it before. I needed to know exactly what the problem was. Because…" he looks down, "my grace is not strong enough for diffuse healing anymore."

Sam sighs. "Cas… you didn't—"

"You're my friend, Sam. Of course I did."

A small smile plays around Castiel's lips. The blue of his eyes is shining through, and Sam's heart feels heavy. "Thanks, man," Sam whispers, overwhelmed.

"Just promise to look after yourself," Castiel replies.

"Yeah," says Sam. "Yeah, of course… sorry. Sorry… I…" _wasted so much time during our search for Dean. Bothered you. Sucked up some of your grace._

Castiel's hand is on his shoulder before he completes his sentence. "I am just glad you're all right," he says. "And," he continues, "I actually made some progress with our research."

Sam's eyes widen, a grin forming on his face. "Really?"

Castiel nods. "Really." And his expression turns serious, raw fury reflecting out of his eyes, as he locks gazes with Sam. "I found a way to kill _her_. Without the Mark or the Blade. It's a special kind of an incantation, and it kills demons — including Knights of Hell. Now we only have to trap her, and we can get her out of Dean."

And once again, a nasty voice speaks up in Sam's head: _yeah, good luck on finding Dean alive._

**~o~**

Sam and Castiel escape the hospital, but Sam gets his anti-hypertensive prescriptions filled despite Castiel insisting that he'll heal Sam from any such subsequent attacks. Sam isn't willing to be responsible for Castiel's grace draining early, so he still gets the meds and starts taking them.

The doctors had told Sam that he isn't handling Dean's kidnapping well, but Sam doesn't know what they're talking about. In what way is his dedication to finding Dean a bad thing? He hasn't had mood swings or anxiety attacks over it. He hasn't shed a single tear or been depressed at all. He is _okay_ — not psychologically traumatised. He just needs to find Dean right now.

So Sam and Cas make a plan. They take Crowley's help —he agrees to sacrifice one of his double agents for the deed after Sam threatens him. The double agent joins Dean and Abaddon on her latest killing spree and while Abaddon is in her post-murder high, the demon lures her to a warehouse with a Devil's Trap on the ceiling. Crowley calls Sam and gives him the whereabouts immediately, and the place is not far.

Sam and Castiel leave the moment they find out. Within two hours, they reach the warehouse where Dean is held and Sam's heart thumps against his chest again, and he hopes he'll be okay, since he's taken his meds this morning. He doesn't want this to go downhill.

They are greeted by a dead demon at the doorstep, and a very pissed off Dean (Abaddon) in the middle of the room, bound to a chair, and under a Devil's Trap.

That's when Castiel realises that he doesn't have the spell book in his pocket — the one that contains the exorcism for Abaddon.

He leaves in a hurry, to search for the book, and Sam is alone, facing Dean's smile. He swallows, hoping that Dean's alive. Because if he's dead, he can't… he _can't_ …

"He's dead," Abaddon says, as though she's reading Sam's mind, and her smirk widens and eyes blacken.

"Screw you," Sam replies. _No. Nonono._

"I'm telling you the truth, Sam," she purrs. "You don't believe me?"

Uselessly, Sam points his knife at her. "I'll kill you! Let him go!"

She laughs. "You can't kill me without killing him, Sam, so I'd really love to see you try."

Sam doesn't know whether to believe her. Crowley had assured him that Dean was alive, but what if Dean decided to let go? No, no… Dean can't be dead.

_You have to hang in there, bro. I beg you._

"Oh _, tch tch_ ," Abaddon says suddenly, breaking Sam out of his reverie. "Big brother thinks he's in Heaven! How touching!"

And that wakes something in Sam. He looks into the smiling eyes that are Abaddon, and for a minute, just for a _minute_ , he sees Dean. He feels his eyes mist over for the first time in months. "Dean?"

Abaddon chuckles, watching Sam like she's enjoying it. "He's just an audience, Sam. And he's going to watch while — what was our agreement, Dean? Rape the brother, murder the boyfriend, or the other way round?"

_Oh God, oh God, the things that Dean has gone through. I'm sorry, Dean, so sorry, so sorry._

"Dean, hold on, okay?" Sam says, his voice sounding as desperate as he feels, while he tries to block out thoughts of how bad it must have gotten for Dean. "We've got her," he assures his brother.

Abaddon is having none of that. "Oh, are you going to exorcise me, Sammy boy? Are you sure your brother's going to stay alive after I leave?"

But Sam already knows the answer to that. He doesn't think — just lets the words automatically tumble out of his mouth. "He'd rather die than have you inside him," he whispers, looking into familiar green eyes, making sure that Dean knows that Sam understands what he wants.

There is silence, and Sam is staring at Abaddon, who is staring right back at him. He wonders where Castiel is, and hopes he'll be back soon. However, Abaddon speaks again.

"Your brother's a pathetic mess, you know that?" she says. "It's a sob story up here — breaking your trust, manipulating you, making decisions for you… blah blah fucking blah… you two have more issues than a married couple in therapy."

"He did what he thought was best for me," Sam replies promptly. "He was trying to save my life." Because whatever he and Dean have fought about, it's between them. He won't let Abaddon take pleasure in this.

"Aren't you two adorable?" she says. "Go on, then, since you're so sure what Dean wants, exorcise me."

Sam opens his mouth to reply when from behind him, Castiel's voice floats into the warehouse. "We won't exorcise you." And finally, finally, Castiel is there, and Sam feels relief flood over him.

Castiel looks furious as he walks forward — and Sam remembers the same expression from the hospital a few days ago. He looks at the _power_ , the _grace_ radiating out of his friend and feels safe, good — like it's going to be okay. They will struggle, but they are all going to be all right.

"We're going to kill you, and you will never hurt Dean again," Castiel finishes, in a low, menacing voice as he takes his position beside Sam. He turns to Sam, friendlier, gentler. "I found it."

Sam nods and backs away a little, his heart thumping really hard again, while he watches Abaddon look at them with confusion etched on her face.

"Well, you can _try_ to kill me," she shrugs. "Let's see how you do that without an archangel's help, but hey, no pressure."

Castiel only goes on to extract the tiny book from his pocket, and Sam smiles.

"What is that?" she asks, and Sam knows she's scared. "What are you doing?"

"Killing you."

**~o~**

Abaddon dies with a feral scream. Black smoke issues out of Dean and turns blue, dissipating as it comes out, falling away like electric sparks, and Sam watches every moment of it, his mind dancing, as he watches Abaddon die.

It's over, it's all over. Sam has Dean back. And he has proved to Dean that he can, in fact save Dean sometimes even if he was in a hospital bed for some of the time and Castiel is the one who was actually successful.

Once again, Sam realises that he's the worst brother ever.

Dean loses consciousness, but not before he cringes from a kiss that Cas tries to plant on his lips and when Sam thinks of the implication of that, he prays — _please, no no no… don't let this be what I think it is_.

Sam hugs Dean too, only to have Dean cough blood all over him, almost send him into fucking _cardiac arrest_ by saying something along the lines of wanting to sleep, and then passing out like a regular person.

But even before Dean loses consciousness, he knows. Somehow, he _knows_. "Y'okay?" he murmurs, struggling to look at Sam.

Sam almost sobs. "Shut up, you fucking idiot."

They were never really successful at keeping secrets from each other, so Dean will find out all about Sam's health scare someday, but not now.

Sam drapes Dean around his shoulders and carries him to the Impala. He deposits his brother on the back seat, shuts the door and leans against the Impala while smiling at Castiel, who looks tired, but triumphant. He nods at Sam. "We did it. You will take care of yourself now?"

Sam nods back, his chest, head and everything feeling heavy at once. He feels something break inside of him and before he knows it, he's sliding down to the ground, his back against the Impala's smooth-not-so-smooth exterior and there are tears dripping out of his eyes while his chest seizes up. He is gasping for breath, tears choking him, vision blurry, and his head begins to throb, but can't get himself to stop.

He's just so sad and happy and relieved and heartbroken all at once, it's too much, and he knows that Dean is going to laugh like a maniac if he finds out but for now, Sam doesn't care. It's all been really overwhelming.

A few moments later, Sam hears Castiel sit down beside him, and he doesn't protest when Castiel pulls him into a hug. They don't talk. They stay like that for a while, Sam trying to regain composure, while Castiel shows how human he can be. And they don't have to say anything either. Because they _know_. They know that if they're forced to relive this ordeal, they won't survive it again


	10. The Final Straw

**Seven: The Final Straw**

****

**_Sam_ **

Sam knows he shouldn't have shrugged Dean away. Because Dean cares. Dean's always just cared — and too much, sometimes. But Dean's always made it about himself too. He calls Sam selfish, but it's not always that way.

_I got you possessed to save your life so I wouldn't have to live alone._

_I got you back from Stanford so I wouldn't be alone._

_I sold my soul for you because…_

Because Dean's so scared of being alone, that he wants to drag Sam along wherever he goes — force Sam to stick with him. Dean has such a fucking terrible impression of himself, he feels like no one would want to be with him or stand by him of their own accord. And the only person Dean feels a sense of ownership towards is Sam, which explains why Sam bears the brunt of it all.

Sam thinks it's his own fucking fault that Dean feels this way. That Dean wants to keep Sam tethered to himself. Sam never told Dean that he'd wanted Dean to come along to Stanford. That every time he had failed to save Dean's life, he had also tried his best… but he just isn't as good as Dean, and that's the truth. He gave up too soon each time. He rolled over and surrendered.

Dean is selfish. So fucking selfish. . . and Sam got his selfishness from Dean, because Dean never knew how to let go.

Sam holds onto a wall and stops. His brain drums along his skull and he can feel saliva pool in his mouth. Dean's yelling hasn't helped his migraine at all, and Sam thinks he might puke again.

 _God, no._ The first time was bad enough. He's going to die.

"Sam?"

There's a soft hand on his arm. Sam turns to his mother sluggishly. He'd heard Dean yelling some more, and Sam guesses that Dean threw everyone out of the room. Sam blinks, focussing on Mary's face, and she looks worried. If his parents are here to stay, he'll have to explain to them at some point that Dean's outbreaks aren't to be taken personally.

Sam swallows at the uncomfortable feeling crawling up his stomach. He needs to puke first. And he's dreading it.

He tugs his mother's hand off — tries to be as gentle as he can, but his fingers are shaking. He pushes himself off the wall when his mother backs off, and stumbles to the dark and drafty bathroom, shivering as he kneels down before the toilet. The nausea makes itself even more evident, creeping just below his throat, and Sam really wishes that Dean hadn't yelled, because Sam isn't going to survive this round of puking. He also wishes that Castiel and his mother could give him some privacy, for he can sense them standing at the doorway and watching worriedly.

He should have really just taken the Dramamine. His mother's appearance distracted him, but he should have remembered. This shit is all his fault. He got Dean riled up, he got Dean to yell, he didn't take the Dramamine and whatever pain Sam is in, now, he's brought it on himself.

Sam's head pulsates and he holds his forehead before leaning over the toilet and coughing miserably, puking up whatever he didn't puke earlier.

The pain in his head skyrockets, increasing the nausea and he leans in again, retching some more and clamping his forehead as it throbs. He curls his other hand across his belly, hoping it will quell the nausea but it does nothing to help as Sam pukes again.

His head is going to explode. He wants to scream — give himself some satisfaction by expressing the agony he's feeling, but when he opens his mouth, it's only to heave painfully again, and to feel the burn of stomach acid as it comes up. His breath hitches as he surfaces, trying to breathe through the pain and gasping miserably, and his head feels like it might fall off his shoulders as his stomach rolls.

He puts his other hand to his forehead as well, rests his elbows against the rim of the bowl, and vomits another time. It's relentless: the retching and the nausea. Sam has no idea how his stomach is still producing stuff for him to throw up. He gags on ribbons of bile, feeling tears fall out of his eyes and spatter into the bowl while a thousand Wendigos dance on his head.

"Is it always like this?" he hears his mother ask Castiel behind him, her voice slightly muffled to ears, which ring when he retches again.

"I don't know," Castiel replies. "Dean says he will be all right. He doesn't seem as intimidated by Sam's bad headaches as I am — although he doesn't know the whole—"

"C-Cas—" Sam coughs as he surfaces, and he tries to make the tone as reprimanding as possible, because there's no fucking way he's going to let his mother know that he had a stroke a few weeks ago. And this isn't associated with any of those headaches.

Before Sam can say any more, he hears footsteps and feels Castiel's presence beside him. His friend crouches down. "Are you sure it's a migraine, Sam?"

Sam spits into the bowl. "P'sitive."

"I'll try to heal you. I thought, in front of Dean, you might—"

"I w-w'sn't lying," says Sam, carefully taking his hands off his forehead to accept Castiel's help. He knows he shouldn't let Castiel do this, but just this once Sam can't take the pain. He's run out on the Imitrex and any medicine that would be effective against the migraine, and he needs Cas's aid this time. He hates it. Hates being so fucking needy, but he's not sure how else he's going to keep up with the hunt in the morning.

And he doesn't want to miss out on a single moment with his mom because he can't — he can't let it go like this and he remembers that time when Karen had come back to life and Bobby'd had to fucking kill her again and how… how on earth did Bobby even survive that?

If his parents die again…

Sam stops himself at the ominous thought. There have been so few things in his life that he's been able to cherish, to call his own… he wonders why life is cruel to only some people, and good to others. But then he remembers that there is probably still a lot to be thankful for, like the fact that he still has Dean, despite everything, even though he should have been (and deserves to be) alone. But he has Dean… he has Dean. And he should probably stop being so stubborn and talk to Dean.

If Dean is up to it.

With his head roaring and stomach still rebelling, Sam realises that though he feels like he's been thinking for hours, it's barely been a second. Castiel doesn't hesitate before placing his fingers on Sam's forehead. Sam waits, expecting the relief to wash over him any moment, but nothing happens. Instead, the pressure of Castiel's fingers on his forehead churns Sam's stomach some more, and he bats Cas's hand away as he lurches back to the bowl.

Castiel is patient and unflinching while he waits. Dean would have shifted about, shook his head and complained about how weak Sam's stomach is, and generally been a little more dynamic, but now Sam's more or less used to Castiel's silent presence too. He's accustomed to blue eyes watching him, the worry in them being the only sign that Cas is actually concerned, without Dean's fussing and cursing. Castiel waits for Sam to finish, and that takes a while. Finally when Sam's wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and reaching forward to flush the toilet, he notices the look of defeat on Castiel's face.

"I'm sorry, Sam," he says, "I think my grace has some holes because of the hit I took a while back."

Sam wishes now more than ever that Castiel had an intact grace, but he nods. "'Ts all right, Cas."

Castiel starts to stand up and holds out a hand to Sam. It takes Sam another two minutes to gather up the courage to move, but at long last, he takes Cas's hand and staggers to the sink to rinse out his mouth. His mother is still outside and she lends Cas a hand in helping Sam to one of the other rooms, where Castiel has set up his own sleeping bag. Sam falls down on his ass and gets supine without protest while his mother comes over to sit by him. She puts a hand on his face.

"Will you let me help you?" she asks him softly. Sam is not sure, at that point, what she thinks of all the mistakes that Dean has just outed. His dad not being around confirms that John's not taking it well, but Sam expects his mother to be at least a little shocked (disgusted).

Sam nods. He's not going to reject any kind of help at this stage. Not when there's a drilling machine in his head. Plus, he thinks, this way, Mom will spend more time with him. Maybe she will not hate him all that much, if she just gets to know him.

Maybe she's just sympathising because he's so sick.

"Okay," Mary whispers, interrupting Sam's thoughts. "Turn around and lie on your stomach."

Sam starts to turn, his hands shaky as he splays his palms on the floor, and Mary helps him. Once he's on his belly, Mary's hands run along Sam's back, in slow, soothing circles, and Sam tries not to sigh.

"Castiel," his mother calls out, and Sam hears the rustle of Cas's trenchcoat. "Can you get him a wet washcloth?" Mary suggests in a murmur. Castiel obeys, and Sam feels soothing wetness on his neck a few moments later. His mother sits back, and there's silence for a while.

Sam wonders if she's thinking about what Dean said. Of course she must be going through it in her head. Mulling it over. It's not something one can forget all that easily. Sam wonders if his mother is thinking of getting up and leaving now because she doesn't want to be around a monster anymore.

Dean shouldn't have said that in front of their parents. Sam gets that Dean is hurt and angry and many things at once — but there hasn't been a single person in Sam's life who hasn't judged him, and he had hoped that his mother wouldn't be one of them. Dean took that away and it's just not fair.

His head throbs some more and he just about blocks a groan, although, he thinks Mary hears it.

She puts her hand on his back. "Try to sleep," she soothes. "It's going to be all right."

"M-Mom—" _Aren't you going to ask me about the stuff that Dean said? Aren't you mad? Disappointed?_

"It's okay, honey," Mary says, patting his back. He feels her bend over and her soft voice whispers to him. "I love you."

_Despite what Dean said?_

"Everybody makes mistakes, Sam," Mary says, as if she's reading his mind. "I know you must have had your reasons. Your mistakes won't make me, or your dad, or Dean, love you any less."

He wants to tell her that she's wrong, that Dean's trust in him vanished long ago, and that he and Dean have cracks deeper than the Grand Canyon running through their relationship. That Dad thinks Sam is the family ditcher. Sam wants to tell Mary that she loves the memory of the baby that he was, and not _him_ , and she won't love him any more when she comes to understand what each of his screw-ups have brought about.

Sam doesn't have any memories of his mother but now he thinks of all the times she might have held him, folded him into her arms, rocked him and genuinely loved him despite the tiny ball of mess he might have been. He thinks of the many nights she might have not slept, and of the many times she might have been tired and might have wanted nothing but to rest, but gave it up for him (and Dean too, of course). All because she's his mom and somehow, despite what Sam is, she loves him. He obviously doesn't deserve it.

Sam understands. There's something about loving people. Something about being family. It's like you're bound, somehow, to that person, and you don't care two fucks about whether they're good or bad, beautiful or ugly, clean or dirty. You just put up with it all. There are so many things you don't mind giving up and there's nothing that's out of bounds. And whether you're worthy of it or not, some people just love you _that much_.

Sam feels his mother's hand in his filthy, sweaty, _disgusting_ hair, fingers running through the strands gently, as though it isn't revolting to her at all. This makes Sam think about the time, when he and Dean were kids, Sam had spat watermelon seeds into Dean's palm because there wasn't a plate or a bowl around. Dean had promptly gone and washed it off later, without saying much. It's a memory from a long time ago — from when Sam was maybe five, and Dean though did grouse about it ("ugh, _gross_. You're so slobbery."), but each time Sam needed to spit, he'd stretched his palm forward.

He doesn't deserve Mom and he definitely doesn't deserve Dean. What started off as his father's and brother's revenge for his mother burning on the ceiling is now something else — and Sam can blame John all he wants, but most of the mistakes he made — the things he became — happened after his father died. He didn't listen to Dean and rebelled at every chance he got. His ego was inflated and dangerous to everyone. And Dean sticking by him after all this is a miracle.

"Sam."

His mother's voice is calm as she whispers. Her thin fingers still card gently through his hair, and she's doing it carefully enough to not flare up the migraine.

"Go to sleep," she says. "Stop thinking about it so much, all right? Dean will come around."

The pain is so much, Sam can't get himself to reply without the fear of letting out some embarrassing, pained noise. So he nods. His mother sighs and rubs his back with the other hand. "I used to tell you and Dean that angels were watching over you," she says softly. "I wasn't that far off the mark, was I?"

Oh, she has no idea.

He snorts, and shuts his eyes while she chuckles. And she hums. She's tone deaf, and Sam can't make out what she's humming, but he feels the arms of sleep pull at him from the periphery. He gives in; his mother's humming still reverberating in his head as he sleeps.

**~o~**

**_Mary_ **

To say that her boys are hurting, is an understatement, Mary thinks, as she watches Sam fall asleep. She can remember rocking him, and he'd always clutch on to her nightie before he drifted off. And God, was it difficult to put him to sleep.

Dean had been easier. Once Dean was fed, he was more than content, and Mary would burp him, hold him to her shoulder and pace around, singing 'Hey Jude'. Dean would be snoozing and drooling into her nightie in the next ten minutes.

Sam had been fussier than Dean about most things. But even then, it had been so much easier at that time. Now, as much as Mary wants to, she can't pick Sam up and rock him to keep him asleep. Apart from the fact that she'll probably break her spine if she tries, Sam won't be receptive to the gesture.

And now it's getting too weird.

Mary sighs and pats Sam's cheek lightly before moving back against a wall. Castiel is watching silently from the far end, and Mary can see his blue eyes trained on her, as though he's trying to figure out something. She looks away from him and concentrates on her hands. She wants to talk to him, to ask him about Sam and Dean, but she doesn't know where to start. Because as familiar as her boys are to her, they're also complete strangers. And Mary feels like a single night isn't enough to understand what happened while she was gone.

"Mom."

Mary turns to the door to see Dean standing there. He sways and holds the doorframe and from the other side, Castiel scrambles up to help him.

"I'm good," Dean tells him determinedly, before limping into the room, clutching on to the wall and sliding down beside Mary. His eyes look up at her and she detects guilt and shame. But Mary smiles and reaches to push back his already-short hair. It won't make a difference, but she just wants him to know that she's not mad at him.

"Feeling better?" she asks him quietly, glancing at Sam, who's snoring a little with his mouth open.

Dean nods hesitantly, and licks his lips. "I just… I…"

"There's nothing to apologise for."

He swallows, nods, and looks past Mary, at Castiel. "Cas."

Castiel gets up and comes to sit on Dean's other side. He doesn't say anything, but Mary watches, from the corner of her eye, as Dean reluctantly slips his hand into Castiel's. And in another moment, they're not holding hands anymore. The gesture — Dean's reluctance to be touched by Cas — strikes an alarm inside Mary. She remembers how Dean was quick to hug her, but he's not receptive to anyone else touching him. Well, except for Sam, when he was supporting Dean when Mary had just arrived.

Mary knows of few situations that could lead to this, and the implications frighten her. What really happened here? Because it doesn't look like it was some huge supernatural shitfest anymore. It looks like something happened to _Sam_ and _Dean_. Not the world. And… _oh, God_.

"Mom," Dean says, turning to her again and breaking her thoughts, "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologise," she whispers.

He looks away, but still explains. "I just… I get angry… and I know… I shouldn't be mad at you guys of all people. You are not at fault." He turns his gaze to Sam. "Sammy either." He blinks. "What I said, about Sam…"

"Is it true?" Mary asks, heart thumping at double speed.

"He's made mistakes," Dean says. "But he always made up for it, and he's one hell of a guy and don't get him wrong from what I say. I just…"

"… get angry."

He smiles sheepishly. "Yeah. I can't seem to help it. Gotta take some of those anger management sessions or yoga or whatever Sammy loves so much, I guess. I'm just pissing everyone off." He chuckles, but Mary doesn't find it amusing.

She looks into his eyes. "Dean, it's okay to be angry. Sometimes, life isn't fair—"

"Try 'all the time'," he snorts, interrupting her.

"What?"

"Well, we don't have the best luck on this planet," Dean says, "but it's…" he sighs, glancing at Sam again. "It's always Sam who's bearin' the brunt. It was me this one time… and look how I am. Throwin' bitch-fits everywhere." He snorts again, and it's so full of self-loathing, that Mary cringes. This is not right. This is so _fucking_ messed up.

"Dean," she says, feeling the horror of the situation well up inside her, "we all react in different ways, honey. You can't blame yourself."

"The _hell_ I can't," he replies, and she can hear the anger, though his voice is still low. "I was the one who was _stupid_. Stupid enough to let it happen. And Sammy — whatever shit he got, he couldn't help it. He couldn't have stopped it. And hell, I was responsible for some of the crap that happened to him. But me… I'm a whole new level of stupid." His voice breaks on the last word and Mary turns to him worriedly.

"No," Mary replies simply. Castiel is looking at her, mouth half-open, his eyes helpless. It looks like he's tried to get rid of Dean's guilt before, and failed. Mary swallows. "You're not stupid."

"You don't even _know_ —"

"Maybe not," she says, "but the fact that you're feeling guilty about it — that you're sorry— proves that you didn't expect it to go this way. And that whatever you did, you thought you were doing the right thing."

"Or whatever I got done to me, huh," he says in a low voice, spitting the words with such hate, that Mary wants to hug him. What the hell? What did someone do to Dean? Who hurt him in such a way that he hates himself? Mary feels anger bubble up inside her. When she finds this son-of-a-bitch, she's doing some long-forgotten hunting. No one fucking lays a finger on her boys, and now this fucker will pay.

She braces herself to ask him the big question. She knows that Dean might lie, but it's worth a try. She needs to know what happened to to him that has Sam and Dean so upset. Because the hurt she can see in her sons right now is beyond everything else. Dean cuts through her thoughts.

"How's he doing?" He jabs a thumb in Sam's direction.

"Not great," Mary says truthfully.

"Tossed his cookies again, huh?" Dean deduces.

Mary nods. "He's pretty sick."

"Ah, crap," Dean replies. "All the poor bastard needed was a migraine. At least he's sleeping, though."

"Is he always like this?" Mary asks Dean. "You know… when he has a migraine?"

"Yeah. Sometimes he's lucky and it's not severe, but he's not very lucky today."

"You take care of him?"

Dean chuckles. "Kind of in my job description," he says. "But I usually just give him the shots if he needs them. He's more than capable of managing the rest by himself." He smiles proudly. "Independent kid."

"He doesn't object to you thinking that way?" Mary asks Dean, snorting a little. "He's thirty-two. You wanted to be a grown man even when you were _four_."

Dean shrugs. "Can't help it."

Mary laughs. "I bet he just loves that."

"He does," Dean says, glancing at Sam fondly as he rests against the wall. "Throws punches at me for it, the giant-ass." He lets off a short laugh. "God, he's such a doofus sometimes. And…" Dean raises himself and peeks at his snoozing brother again, "… yup, drooling on the sleeping bag. It's all his now. I ain't ever using that."

Mary just watches Dean and feels a bubble of happiness rise in her. It's a tiny bubble, like a single ray of hope, but she can take whatever she gets. Including the best kids in the whole world. She will not miss anything else in their lives — she promises herself that.

**~o~**

**_Sam_ **

The world is a haze. Someone is slamming Sam's head against a wall and nausea is flaring up in his gut. His mouth feels like it's stuffed full of cotton. A drop of sweat runs down Sam's temple and clings to his nose. He wants to reach out and wipe it away, but everything hurts.

He tries to squirm away from whoever is knocking his head against the wall. He can't feel the hands, and he's not sure what force is causing this. Demon? Although Sam wouldn't put it past an angel either. Who has he pissed off and what led to this?

Most importantly, where's Dean? Dean and Cas should be around…

Then he remembers. No… no… there are no demons. Sam has a _migraine_. He's had the migraine for a while. Mom and Dad know. Dean is mad…

 _Shit_.

He opens his eyes abruptly and blocks a moan from escaping his lips. He's still on the sleeping bag, which feels uncomfortable against his belly, and there are voices in the background. The cheek that's pressed into the sleeping bag is dry and crusted with… something, and Sam licks his lip experimentally.

The voices stop, and Sam sighs. They were too loud. He just needs to sleep. He just wants to sleep. He shuts his eyes again.

"Sammy?"

There's a shuffling sound. Dean's voice is grating and Sam wants to cover his ears. He takes in a deep breath as the pain crests and reaches its high point.

It hadn't been so bad before. Sam can swear it's gotten worse ever since he slept, which is weird, because for a migraine as horrendous as this, sleep is usually the only cure. But this monster isn't even beginning to leave. The pain flares up again and Sam concentrates on breathing, feeling like his head is slamming against a metal gate.

_Oh God, let me die. Let me die, let me die… please._

Miraculously, the pain gets back to its nadir, now only agonising instead of excruciating. Whatever. Sam registers the hand on his shoulder.

"Sam."

Dean sounds worried. Sam's nails are digging into the flesh of his palm. He tries to breathe, only to feel his jaw unclench. Seems like his body is reacting involuntarily to the pain.

He wants to die. He can't take this anymore. Can't take this…

_Can't. Can't. Can't. Can't._

Sam thinks he might have said that out loud, because Dean is squeezing his shoulder. "Okay, okay, relax, man, we'll get you something, huh? Just. . . just… Cas?"

There are more footsteps. Dean's hand is still on Sam's shoulder as he talks to Cas. "Check his duffel for any of the Imitrex injectors he might have left over. I don't think he's filled his prescription recently, but if you can find the shots, get them. Otherwise, just get my duffel."

"Okay."

Sam hears the whoosh of Castiel's trench as he turns away to leave. The pain starts to escalate again and before he knows it, he's gritting his teeth, toes curling as he tries to ride it out.

"Sammy," Dean soothes. "Relax, man. Don't clench up. C'mon. Deep breaths."

"Dean?" It's Mom. Sam tries to turn towards her, but he can't make out where she is.

"I got him," Dean explains to her. "If you wanna talk to Dad…"

"Okay."

Sam realises then that their Mom is probably leaving to give him and Dean some privacy. Is Dean here to talk to him, then? Well, in that case, Dean wins, because Sam's not in a position to talk. But Sam doesn't want to argue anymore, so it's okay. He'll just listen to Dean and let his brother get his satisfaction out of it.

However, Dean doesn't talk. Silence stretches for a while, until there are more footsteps, and Sam hears the heavy sound of Dean's duffel being laid on the floor. Dean mutters a 'thanks,' presumably to Cas, and Sam can hear Dean rummaging and then the rattle of pills in a bottle. Oh no, he can't push anything down his gullet right now.

Dean doesn't seem to care.

Sam hears his brother shake out two pills. "Sam," he calls out. "Here. Turn around, man, you can sleep once I get some meds in you."

"Dean…" It's Castiel.

"What?" Dean snaps.

"I don't think he should take it."

"What, _Advil_?"

Advil. Ah, _fuck_. Sam's already puked up the ones he took a while ago, but he knows that Cas is right. He can't take more Advil. The doctor asked him to control these kinds of drugs. And seeing as Cas couldn't heal all of Sam's problems…

"Advil is a non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drug," Castiel reasons. "It can cause certain formidable side-effects."

"Oh, and you're what, Dr Sexy, now?" Dean asks him shortly. "I know what's good for him, okay? Stay out of this, Cas."

Castiel falls quiet immediately. Sam finally opens a bleary eye, and finds Dean's worried, tired face looming over his. "Here," Dean says, pressing the pills into Sam's hand. "Take them."

Sam brings them to his eyes and squints. "Took 'em," he manages in a hoarse whisper. "Threw up." He takes a breath. "Dean…"

"What is it?" Dean asks him, concern in his voice.

"'M nauseous. No pills… pl'se…"

"Oh yeah, sorry, I should give you the Zofran injection first." Dean takes the pills away. He rummages his duffel some more. "I swear I had the other med kit in here…" he pauses. "Is it in your bag?"

Sam barely nods, and he feels Dean shift. "Cas?"

And Castiel is off again.

They wait some more, until Cas gets Sam's bag, and Sam hears Dean searching for the medicine kit. They have two — one for the pills, and the other for injections. Sam listens to the pleasant, white noise that his brother makes in the background, while he tries to breathe through the headache. He hears Dean stop while rummaging.

"What's this?"

Sam opens an eye. Dean is holding the orange prescription bottles that — _oh, crap_.

"Doxa…zosin," Dean reads. He picks up the other bottle. "Atenolol." He pauses. "What are these for? And why do you have a BP apparatus in your bag?"

Dean sounds confused and suspicious, but Sam's headache is too much to deal with in itself. He doesn't reply, and watches Dean put the pills down as he reaches for the med kit.

"You're going to have to tell me, you know," he says, pulling out a syringe and popping open a Zofran ampoule. He starts loading, and gestures to Sam. "Arm."

Sam obliges, and feels the needle slip into his vein as he watches blood swirl in and mix with the medicine. Dean pushes the plunger slowly, and presses a piece of cotton on the needle wound before drawing the needle out and capping it.

"You get sick while I was gone?" Dean asks, and Sam doesn't reply. He isn't sure he can handle another explosion right now.

"Sam?" Dean presses, and Sam just shuts his eyes again. There's a few moments of silence again. Sam waits for the Zofran to work, but the nausea doesn't abate. The headache seems to only grow, and Sam's neck hurts too.

Dean sighs. "Fine. You don't want to tell me," Sam hears another rattle, "I'll find out. You know that, right? I know how to use the internet, Sam. I ain't stupid." There is a pause. "Here. Cataflam. We're out of injections but I know the pills take the edge off your migraines sometimes."

Cataflam's just the same as Advil. The doctor has forbidden it unless there's an emergency, but this _is_ an emergency. Plus Sam puked up the Advil, so this shouldn't add to that, should it? Sam lets Dean help him sit up and knocks down the pills, chasing them down with some water after that. Then he lays back down and shuts his eyes through the throbbing.

"Sammy."

"'Bout the pills, I'll tell you, Dean," Sam murmurs. "Just not now."

That's all Dean seems to need: an assurance that Sam will eventually let him in on why the new pills are there. "You should sleep properly, man," he says, worry tingeing his voice. "Look at what's happened. It hasn't been like this in years."

Sam scoffs. What was he supposed to do? Snore away, while Dean had nightmares and panic attacks? When Dean was possessed? How exactly was Sam supposed to stay put all that time? Would Dean have followed his own advice, had their situations been reversed?

A hand places itself lightly on the back of his head, and is gone the next moment. Sam knows that Dean feels guilty about what he said. And Dean really shouldn't blame himself — because it was all actually Sam's fault. Sam just wishes, right now, that he could stop being so fucking debilitated these days, and actually help his brother.

Minutes pass, and Sam tries to think, to divert his mind from the pain. His stomach is still churning, the pills sitting inside unsettlingly, and Sam swallows against the rising nausea. Beside him, Dean is talking to Cas in a low voice… and it's about their case, but Sam can't understand what they're saying.

The nausea suddenly reaches its crescendo, though, and Sam struggles to sit up. Dean, whose hand is still on Sam's shoulder, notices this. "Hey, hey, _what_? What's happening?"

Sam just props himself up before leaning over the side of the sleeping bag and throwing up on the floor. He feels an anvil fall on his head, and heaves again as the bitter pills come rushing back up. The headache goes up another notch, driving in more nausea, so that Sam retches again.

His ears are ringing, eyes are watering, and his whole body, except for his head, is numb. Sam has no clue what's going on. He catches snippets of Dean's words to him and anchors himself to them, because it's the only thing he can do.

"Breathe, Sam, dammit," Dean says, and Sam tries, but all that happens is more painful heaving. And Dean says something else — Sam thinks he's asking him to calm down… but _how_?

A few moments later, Sam feels the sleeping bag hit his back and someone's patting at his sweaty cheek, trying to reach out to him. Sam's head is blasting away — pieces of his skull rattling in his head, and creating havoc.

"That's it," Dean's disembodied voice says, "you're done. You're done."

Sam screws his eyes shut as another throb shakes his skull, and he tries not to cry out. "Please," he says, the words coming out in a garbled sound as he clutches his head. Sam can't recognise his own voice. "Please…"

"Sam," Dean says quietly. "Just take it easy, man. Getting wound up is makin' it worse."

"Please."

"Okay. Okay."

"C-Can't…"

"I know, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Sammy."

Sam's vision goes between black and white. Dean's hand is on his shoulder again, clenching and unclenching, and Sam gasps as another set of throbbing spasms begin to attack him, like several pieces of shrapnel hitting his brain and exploding and swirling and…

"Dean, Dean, 'm sorry." It comes out desperate and slurred, and Dean's hand clenches on Sam's shoulder.

"Hey."

"Dean, m'sorry… 'bout Abaddon… next time… lemme go…"

"Sam, you're not making sense. _What_?"

"D-D'n."

"Okay, I'm gonna give you a shot. You really need to sleep."

"N-No…"

"Sam, shut up, all right? You can barely talk and you're hurting. Now let me do my shit."

"D'n…"

"I know you hate it, I know, but we tried everything else and you're puking despite the Zofran. Just go with me here, dude."

"D'n, please. Lemme g-go."

"Shhh."

Sam sighs. "'Kay."

There's another prick… and Sam can barely locate it with all the torture in his head, but he feels cool liquid slide up his vein. In another minute, before he can realise it, he's one with the inviting darkness.

**~o~**

Sam doesn't know how long he was asleep, but when he comes to, it feels like he never slept. Every bone in his body is tired and his head… well, he doesn't actually have words for that. He just… he doesn't want to think and… _fuck_.

The throbbing rises. Sam hisses. There's a low voice coming from somewhere in the general vicinity, and someone's talking again. Sam sighs and opens his eyes for a little bit, only to catch sight of a tan trenchcoat's end, fanned out on the floor, not very far from where he's lying. Sam squints up. Dean and Cas are leaning against the wall, conversing rather seriously. Despite the pain, Sam smiles; they're holding hands.

Dean is slightly fidgety in Cas's grip, but he manages not to pull his hand away.

"Cas," he says, not realising that Sam is awake, "I just… I know I must look like crap to you guys, but stop hiding things from me, man."

"We didn't want you worried."

Dean scoffs. " _Seriously_?" He pauses. "What are the pills about? I checked them on the web. They're meds for high BP?" Dean sounds extremely confused.

"Yes."

There's a long moment of silence, as Castiel refuses to provide further information. Finally, Dean speaks.

"You wanna elaborate?"

"No."

"Cas."

Castiel turns to Dean. "You should ask Sam."

"Dude, the internet gave me a crap load of heart stuff when I looked for these meds, and now I'm spooked, okay? I just wanna know what the hell happened. You owe me that much!"

"Dean, what Sam chooses to reveal or hide about his health is up to him. Doctors follow a confidential protocol, I believe. And we should respect that and do the same for Sam."

"Yeah," Dean says, twitching his hand away from Cas's. "Except, you actually know what went wrong. And I deserve to know. He's my little brother."

"There's nothing wrong with him. I healed him. It's in the past. You should rest, Dean, and not worry about something that isn't a threat anymore."

"Why is he still on meds, then? Why did you tell me not to give him the Advil?"

"Well, honestly, I'm pretty sure the doctor said no Cataflam either," Castiel replies.

_"What?"_

Castiel shrugs. "Never mind. The medicine is not actually a threat to him now, seeing it never stayed in Sam's stomach."

Dean stays quiet for a moment. He turns his head in Sam's direction, and Sam quickly shuts his eyes to prevent Dean from knowing that he is awake. He bites down on his pain as he hears Dean let out a low snarl. "Screw you. Screw you both."

"Dean—"

"Don't you fucking _touch_ me, man!" Sam opens his eyes in shock, to see Dean shift himself away from Cas. "You and Sam — both of you. What the fuck do you think has happened to me?"

Castiel licks his lips, taking the rhetorical question all too seriously. "I am not sure about Sam, but Dean, I think you've been sexually abused. It explains—" He stops midway, and Sam realises why, when he takes a look at Dean's face.

Dean blanches. The colour trickles out of his face quickly, draining away like sand in an hourglass, stream-by-stream, until there's nothing. His eyebrows are arched and his mouth opens for a moment.

The next second, Dean finds his voice. "You have no _fucking_ —"

"Dean, we can help," Cas interrupts him, and Sam cringes. _Cas didn't say that. Cas didn't actually say that…_

"I don't need your help," Dean mutters, and his voice is not a whisper anymore. The pain in Sam's head reminds him that it's excruciating. _Shit_.

"I don't need _your_ help, or _anyone_ 's help," Dean repeats. "You're not my knight in shining armour, okay? Not you, not Sammy. You saved my life, and thanks, but apart from that, don't think you can—"

"Let us help, Dean," Cas pleads, and Sam knows that he's well-meaning, but he also knows how this is going to end.

"I am not a fucking _damsel in distress_!" Dean explodes, his voice almost a yell. Sam clenches his jaw, willing the pain to reduce. It doesn't. Instead, Sam finds it difficult to even turn his neck. Crap, shit, something's wrong here. Something's really wrong.

Castiel continues to speak. "We know—"

"Do you? Because I sure as hell don't think so!" Dean's voice is piercing Sam's ears, and Sam's gut roils with more nausea. "Because," Dean continues, "ever since I came back, neither of you has fucking left me alone. You wanna talk. Both you bastards just wanna talk. But guess what? It doesn't go away!"

"Dean…"

"Stop trying to _help_ me, Cas," Dean snaps. "Did I ask for it?"

"No."

"Then learn to fucking stop doing what people don't want done to them!" Dean shouts. "And if you can't do that, fuck off from my life, because I ain't taking any more of this shit!"

Sam's ears are ringing. His eyes are open now, and he hisses, hands going up to his head, but Dean and Cas don't seem to notice. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam sees Cas deflate.

"You don't mean that, Dean."

"You wanna bet on that? I'm done with my tolerance, Cas, and I'll do it. I'll follow through, okay?"

There's more silence, and Sam curls his toes as the pain beats against his head in waves. Dean still hasn't noticed Sam's agony, and Sam is praying for them to stop shouting. He can't take it anymore. He can't. _No. Nononononono. Please. Let me die. Let me die._

"Sam?"

It's Dean's voice. Softer, anger reined in, and more controlled.

Sam doesn't realise he'd shut his eyes again, but when he opens them, Dean is closer to him, his face apologetic. "Sorry," he says. "I didn't—"

"'S ok," Sam whispers, but it's not. He clenches his fingers over his head. "Oh, God."

"Sorry," Dean repeats. "I… can I do something? Please tell me, Sammy, I'm sorry, man."

Sam shakes his head as a tear runs down his temple. He chokes on his own breath from the pain, teeth clenched too tight together for him to even moan. He feels like something is sawing through his head, and the urge to puke becomes overwhelming. Sam tries to turn as he retches.

"Sam!"

Dean is turning him over and Sam gags up nothing, again and for another time, dry-heaves taking over his body as Dean's fingers clutch on to his arm. Several tears make their way out of Sam's tightly-shut eyes, and he's shaking all over as he keeps retching up air.

Something shifts beside him, and Cas speaks. "Dean, you need to check his BP."

"Cas, it's a—"

"Check his BP, Dean," Castiel says insistently, "or move, so I can do it. He might need a hospital."

The shock of Castiel's last sentence makes Dean loosen his grip on Sam slightly, but he gathers his bearings. "I'll do it."

The cuff is around Sam's arm in a moment, and he feels it tighten, then loosen. And then the cuff is off just as quickly. Dean sighs. "It's normal. Will you tell me—?"

"Is his nose supposed to bleed in a migraine?" Castiel unabashedly diverts Dean's question.

That's when Sam registers the thick, warm liquid gushing from his nostril and flowing down, and he tries to breathe it in. _What_? Why is his nose bleeding? That shouldn't be happening. The only time Sam's had headaches and nosebleeds are while he was using his powers all those years ago, but he's clean now.

"The nosebleed isn't supposed to be there," Dean admits.

There's a pause. Sam opens his eyes warily and flicks his gaze to Castiel, who seems to be calculating something. He glances at Sam and they meet eyes, before Castiel looks back at Dean.

He licks his lip. "This might be more than just a migraine, Dean."

"What are you talking about?"

"Have you considered that the shaman could have cursed Sam?"


	11. Trust No One

**Eight: Trust No One**

**_Dean_ **

Dean stares at Cas as his words echo around in his head. A curse. Dammit. It looks pretty obvious, now that Cas has voiced it. It has to be a curse. They were too stupid not to think that the shaman would put them on a timer, or threaten them in some way.

How the fuck did Dean not think of this before?

He remains silent while Cas reasons his theory. "Sam's symptoms only started once he'd gotten a hold of the letter, Dean. And every hour, it gets worse. You said his nose shouldn't bleed during a migraine, right?"

Dean nods, expression grim.

"It's because that was not a real migraine, although it imitated one pretty well, I think. Gan could have bound a curse to the envelope, and it said 'Winchester', which means either of you could have been hit by the curse. It just turned out that Sam was the one who opened it," Cas explains.

Dean looks worriedly between his brother, whose face is practically radiating pain, and Cas. "What should we do?" he asks, voice strained. He is going to fucking murder that son of a bitch for cursing Sammy like this. Gan is a dead man now. For sure. And he ain't getting his son back, no matter what.

Castiel sounds calm as he replies to Dean. "We should get to work on translating the letter. For all we know, it could be the key to getting this curse off Sam."

Dean feels torn. If he sets to work on translating the letter, who will watch out for his brother? And they don't even know if translating the letter will actually help. They're only guessing that Gan is behind it. For all they know, it could be a real migraine with a real nosebleed.

Dean sighs. "Cas, man. I can't leave him like this. If he gets even worse…"

"It's okay," says Cas. "How about you and your mother stay here with Sam? Your father and I can go get the message translated."

Dean frowns at the suggestion. As far as he's seen, his dad hates Cas. How the hell are they going to get along?

"Are you sure?" Dean asks hesitantly. "I mean, you know…you and Dad don't really… uh, gel."

Castiel shrugs his shoulders. "It's all right. Besides, we don't have a choice, do we?"

**~o~**

**_Mary_ **

Mary smiles as she walks up to her husband, who is sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, surrounded with books. His thick fingers skim through fragile paper and his face expresses a mixture of anger and annoyance.

"Someone's surly," she comments, moving a few of the books aside to take a seat next to him. John grumbles under his breath, making Mary chuckle.

"Stupid, good for nothing, supernatural shit," he mutters as he slams a book close and tosses it aside.

"So, obviously that message is still a mystery, seeing as you're in a bad mood," Mary says, laying a comforting hand on John's knee. "We'll figure it out. I promise."

When John turns towards her, Mary is taken aback by the emotion in his eyes; the longing. And she's seen similar looks in her boys' eyes as well. She knows a part of what happened when she left and her heart breaks a little more for her three men when she remembers how much they've been through. They say it like it wasn't a big deal; but it must have been worse than that.

"I know we will," John replies. Suddenly, he's taking her hand in his. "God, I missed you." He kisses the back of her palm and his lips linger there a while, his stubble scratching against Mary's skin. She can feel his warm breath before he lifts his face up and looks into her eyes.

Mary remains speechless. She just smiles and runs her free hand through John's hair as she notes the pain in his broken eyes. John had always relaxed when Mary had stroked his hair. It was their thing. When he came back from work, tense, or when he got riled up about things, Mary would simply stroke his hair.

Her method still works well, she notes, for John does relax in her arms.

A few moments of silence pass, and they remain like that, trying to find their eternity in the few moments that they have. Finally, John speaks. "Sam's right, you know."

Mary frowns, bewildered. "About what?"

"About me screwing them up. I was hardly a father, Mary. I basically drank all day for the first few months after you… left. Dean barely spoke. Sam was always crying. It was a nightmare. Then I got my shit together, found out about the dark stuff that actually haunted the night and became this—this _drill sergeant_. I entrusted Sam to Dean. He was barely five, Mary. I don't think I ever told him how much I loved him, or how much both of them meant to me.

"All I ever fucking did was train them. Move around and hunt. You would have hated me. Hell, I hate myself for what I did to them." John's voice cracks towards the end as he hangs his head.

Mary's had it. This guilt from Sam and Dean and John is not what she's crawled out of her grave for. She is tired of watching them hate themselves and she doesn't know if it's a family thing or what, but this has to stop. She squares her shoulders. "John Winchester, I will smack on you on the head if you say shit like that one more time," she scolds.

John turns to her, flabbergasted.

"I'm not saying you didn't make mistakes, because you did. Every parent does. I don't know what happened while I was gone, but I do know this. The Sam and Dean I see now are inseparable. Even when they're fighting, they're together. I just left Sam's room. Dean is ever so gentle with Sam, caring for his every need. Sam is trusting and he knows that Dean won't hurt him.

"I wish you hadn't raised them hunters, but they're strong. The only reason they've come this far without us is because of how they look out for each other, no matter the circumstances. So you shut that pie hole of yours. If you're a shitty parent then I'm no parent at all. I died, John. Left my four-year-old, my baby, and a loving husband to fend for themselves. I let my kids grow up without a mother. I let my husband go on without a life partner."

Mary doesn't get to hear John's response as fast footsteps reverberate across the floorboards and Castiel comes into view, looking worried and in a hurry. "I think I know why Sam is getting worse," he says. He begins to explain a theory about how the message they're currently trying to decipher might be a curse, and Mary's heart pounds against her rib cage. No. They have to find a solution. She can't see her son in so much pain anymore.

"I know we have our differences," Castiel continues, looking at John, "but Dean is hesitant to leave Sam and I think they'll be more at ease with your wife here as well. So if it's all right with you, both of us could go and look for someone who is capable of translating this message for us."

John doesn't hesitate. "All right," he says, "let's get to it, then."

**~o~**

**_Dean_ **

Dean walks Cas and John to the door and wishes them luck in finding the translator they'd contacted, after about thirty minutes of calls placed to various hunter friends. There had been a brief period when Dean had thought of suggesting Crowley's name for the translation because he knows exactly how to get that bastard to say yes to this kind of a thing. But, he thinks, as he rubs at the burn where the Mark had been, even though calling Crowley would have actually worked, his family wouldn't approve, and they don't need more conflicts at this moment.

So Dean watches Cas and Dad leave, and doesn't waste another minute before rushing back to Sam's room. He sits in a corner of the room, feeling slightly better with Mary watching over Sam. He's missed his mother so much. And he feels really grateful having her here at a time like this.

Dean crosses out yet another name on the list in front of him. Before Cas and John had left, Dean had proposed an idea of trying to find a healer since they weren't sure yet what exactly was causing Sam so much pain. So if someone can cure Sam in the meantime, it will be of huge help to them. And maybe the healer can help some of Sam's symptoms despite the curse, if there is one. Everyone had agreed to this.

On the list is a single name that remains. Matthew Lawson lives nearby. Hoping for good news, Dean dials the number.

**~o~**

**_Castiel_ **

Tense silence fills the Impala as John concentrates on driving while Castiel is in the passenger seat, not uttering a word. Cas wants to break the tension, to make John realise that he's not the enemy. He never has been the enemy.

Castiel is envious of the relationship that Dean has with John. It may be rocky, but Castiel has seen how much Dean and Sam's parents care for them, which is care that Cas never got in Heaven. A few of his fellow angel brothers and sisters may have looked out for him, but very few ever stood by him.

He could count on one hand the people he considers trustworthy, or family. And God, or most of his angel siblings are definitely not them.

Cas glances towards John. "I know it's wrong to eavesdrop," he says, "but I couldn't help overhearing your conversation with your wife. Not that it means anything, but I think you've raised your sons well."

John throws Cas a sceptical look from the wheel. "You think so?"

Cas nods. "They may have fought along the way, but they've always had each other's backs. Heaven and Hell both had plans for them. Their destinies were written up long before they were even born. They didn't care. They thwarted every plan, stood strong against everything in their way.

"They might be fighting now, but they still care for one another. They were kind enough to forgive my mistakes and take me in as family. I've done a lot of things that don't deserve forgiveness, but they've always given me a chance.

"You've raised them well."

John purses his lips, as though absorbing whatever Castiel just said. After a few moments of silence, John asks, "What about you and Dean? Was that always there?"

Castiel scratches his chin, as he tilts his head, wondering how to answer. "I don't know. I'm never certain about that. Raising his soul from Hell did give me a glimpse into it. It's riddled with pain, guilt, and love. But most of all, it was his humanity and loyalty that really pulled me in. I think we only just realised out feelings for each other recently. But there's no saying it couldn't have happened before. Maybe it was always there and we just didn't know it until now."

John chuckles, "You have quite a way with words, Castiel."

Cas smiles. _Castiel._ That is the first time he's heard John say his name without resentment or hatred underlying it. He laughs along with John, happy to feel the tension between them diffuse.

"You'll look out for him? Keep him happy?" John asks seriously, as he parks the car.

Castiel looks directly into John's eyes. "I'll die for him. For both of them."

**~o~**

**_Dean_ **

Dean is worried. Sam had looked nauseated about twenty minutes ago and Dean had helped him into the bathroom. But, Sam being Sam, he hadn't let Dean stay with him. So Dean had respected Sam's need to be alone and had closed the bathroom door.

The sounds of painful retching had gone on for fifteen minutes, followed by five minutes of complete silence, and Dean is worried.

For those five minutes, Sam hasn't called out, hasn't retched, hasn't moaned.

_Why is it so fucking silent?_

Dean gets to his feet, ignoring his mother's questioning gaze and knocks lightly on the door. "Sam, you okay?"

A few seconds pass by but Sam doesn't answer.

"Sam?" Dean calls out, louder.

His heart hammers against his chest as there is still no response. One could hear a pin drop in the silence that encapsulates the room right now.

"Fuck it," Dean mutters to himself as he opens the bathroom door. Only, it stops half way, as though something is blocking it.

Dean's blood runs cold. He squeezes in through the half-open door and immediately gets to his knees when he sees Sam sprawled out on the floor, blocking the door from being opened completely. He's passed out.

"Sammy?" Dean calls out worriedly, voice shaking.

_God, are we too late?_

Dean shakes his head at the unpleasant rush of thoughts and scenarios. He quickly puts a hand to Sam's throat to feel for his pulse. It's weak, but it's there, and Dean breathes a little easier with that knowledge.

"Mom!" he calls out, trying to keep a level head.

He hears footsteps and his mother is immediately at the door. She looks worried as she enters the cramped bathroom, but she takes a look at Dean, and her expression is determined. Dean smiles inwardly, because this is something he's always done for Sam. Stowed away his own worry and fear for the sake of Sam and other people around him.

Maybe this is where he gets it from.

Dean turns to his brother and pats his cheek. "Hey, brother."

Sam doesn't open his eyes. Dean sighs. "Come on," he says, rubbing his knuckles against Sam's sternum. "I can't carry your heavy ass out of here, man. I can barely walk without falling over right now."

Sam sighs, and Dean continues to use his knuckles on his sternum. "That's it. Open those ugly-ass eyes for me."

"Hey!" Mary protests from behind him. Dean turns to her, and she's smiling slightly. "I actually like my baby's eyes," she says tenderly.

Dean scoffs. " _Baby_? Try 'giant ape'. That's what this dude is."

"You will—"

"Always be kids to you, yeah," Dean finishes for her. "I know that feeling. But we're not actually babies, you know. Well, I wish Sammy was a baby right about now so I could just pick him up, but he's about a hundred sizes too large."

"I'm not arguing with you about this," Mary replies, mouth still twitching. Sam chooses that moment to let out a groan, and she grins. "He's waking up."

"Well, that's half the battle won, then," Dean says, as he turns back to Sam. "Hey, you with us, brainiac?"

"Mmmm," Sam replies, opening an agonised eye.

Dean puts his hands on Sam's shoulders. "C'mon, let's get back to your sleeping bag."

Sam nods shakily and begins to prop himself up. Dean looks at Mary. "Help me?"

She comes forward and, with a joint effort and a lot of panting, they finally manage to half-carry, half-support Sam back, before depositing him onto his sleeping bag. Dean carefully pulls back the hair that's covering Sam's face and tries to make his brother as comfortable as possible while Mary gets her breath back. He looks at her and chuckles. "Enough workout for today, huh, Mom?"

"What…do you feed…him?" she pants.

Dean shrugs. "He lives on salads and organic fruit. Rabbit food, so to speak. I don't know how he managed to become Sasquatch sized."

There is silence for a while, as they watch Sam's unconscious form, now resting on a better surface. It doesn't do anything to decrease Dean's worries. The last healer on the list had, indeed, turned out to be legit and Dean is thanking his stars for it.

"Where is the goddamned healer?" he mutters to himself. Lawson is an old man, so he probably needs a while to get here, but should it really take this long? Has Gan found out and tried to interfere? God, Dean hopes not.

**~o~**

**_Castiel_ **

"This is ancient Chinese."

Castiel blinks at the philology professor, Dr Roger Carrie, who is frowning at the paper with confusion written all over his face. The man is young — tall and thin, but he exudes an aura of intelligence and learning. John and Castiel managed to get him in time after his lecture, and he looked enthusiastic when he first saw the text, but now he's just been staring at it for five minutes. It makes Castiel wonder if they are wasting Sam's time.

"This is—"

"We're aware of what it is," Castiel snaps.

The professor's eyes meet with his. "I'm sorry, I just… this looks like a poem."

"A poem?"

"I would say," he replies. "Or a riddle; although it can't quite be a riddle…"

"Why?"

"Why _what_?" Roger looks earnest as he says it.

"Why can't it be a riddle?"

"Because if it is," Roger shrugs, "it's pretty much a death threat."

"What?" John is on his feet.

"Well, yeah," the professor replies, "but—"

"You need to write down the translation," Castiel tells him, pushing forward a blank paper. "Now. You're wasting our time."

Roger looks confused. "What's going on here? Is someone—?"

" _Now_!" Castiel replies, getting to his feet like John.

Roger cowers. "Okay. Okay, I'll do it," he breathes, before uncapping his pen and starting to write on the paper.

**~o~**

**_Dean_ **

How long he's been waiting for the healer, Dean doesn't know. He's seated in the corner of his room, knees drawn to his chest and eyes on Sam, as Sam refuses to hold onto consciousness. He just moans sometimes, and then he's silent again. And each time he goes silent, Dean crawls over to check his brother's pulse. Because… _because_ …

The doorbell rings, interrupting the hideous thought. Dean is starting to scramble to his own unsteady feet, but Mary beats him to it. "I'll get it." That's when Dean realises, that even though she isn't showing it, Mary is equally worried for Sam.

Dean strains his ears to listen to the door open, and there is a booming voice in the hallway, which quiets as his mother presumably begins explaining Sam's condition. The healer responds, and there are footsteps towards the room. Dean keeps his eyes at the doorway, and watches as Lawson enters the room.

He is short and rotund with a mop of silver hair under an old-fashioned manila hat. A large, silver moustache adorns his upper lip. He's dressed in a white shirt, pinstriped with black, and manila trousers. In one hand he has a large briefcase, which he sets on the floor. His eyes are a whimsical blue that stand out on his round, wrinkled face.

Looking at him, Dean would never guess that he hunted at some point in his life.

Lawson holds his hand out. "Dean, is it?"

"Yeah," Dean replies, shaking hands with the healer. They break apart, and Lawson frowns at Sam's unconscious figure.

"When did he pass out?"

"He… it's been a few minutes," Dean says. "He woke up in between."

"It's a curse?"

"Yeah," Dean replies. "Xi-Shaman."

"Ah," Lawson replies, eyes sparkling, as he kneels beside Sam and lays two fingers on his forehead. Sam moans, but doesn't open his eyes, and the old man keeps his fingers there. "Shamanism. Interesting."

"Excuse me?"

"No, no, you're getting me wrong," Lawson tells Dean, who's starting to seriously dislike the guy. "It's just this curse. It's… complicated."

"And how is that?"

"I cannot say," the healer responds simply, and Dean really begins to doubt him now. Is this guy even legit? He looks like a clown and is just all around strange.

Dean raises an eyebrow. "Can you cure him?"

"Yes," Lawson says. "I can. But we need to work on relieving him first. Then I can start removing the effects of the curse for good."

"Relieving — meds?"

"You can say that," Lawson responds as he snaps his briefcase open. There are several vials in there, along with books, and Dean squints at the colourful ingredients that the healer is carrying with him. He clears his throat.

"I did give him meds, you know. He just kept throwing them up. About a dozen times too. You do know what migraines are supposed to be like, right?"

Lawson doesn't respond, as trembling fingers linger over a few jars, and then he smiles as he draws out a small one, containing a brown powder. He holds it before his eyes for a moment, smiling some more. "I think I've got just the thing."

"Huh?"

He hands the jar to Dean. "Powdered valerian root. It's a sedative, and is effective for pain."

"Doc, I don't think Sammy needs any more sedation."

"It is also an anxiolytic," Lawson explains. "It will calm him down. And, oh—" he searches some more and retrieves another jar, this time with a whitish powder in it. "Ginger. Should help his nausea. Make some tea and add these to it. I'll look up some spells to help him in the meantime."

Dean takes the second jar and nods to Mary. "You stay here, Mom. I'll make him the tea. Just holler if—" his eyes flick to Lawson, who is occupied with searching his briefcase for something else. _Just holler if he's too creepy._

Mary looks at Dean a moment, and then nods.

**~o~**

**_Castiel_ **

The words on the piece of paper that Dr Roger wrote on are pretty clear and simple, but Castiel struggles to understand the whole meaning of them as he and John sit inside the Impala, sunlight streaming on them while they read it again and again.

_You have but ten times of an hour_

_Cut down with each death sour_

_Return what I have lost_

_Or dearly you shall pay the cost._

"I don't get this," John says for the umpteenth time. "Who is he killing? Do you think he's killing people?"

"It's possible," Castiel reasons. "It doesn't help me understand what this has got to do with Sam, though. Maybe he has an actual migraine."

John wrinkles his nose. "I don't know. It's too strange to be a coincidence."

"We should hurry, then," Castiel says.

"Yes," John agrees as he turns on the ignition.

**~o~**

**_Dean_ **

The healer is poring through a book when Dean arrives with the tea. He shows the cup to Lawson. The string of a teabag hangs down from the side of the cracked cup as the old man peers inside and takes a whiff of the brew.

"Perfect," he says. "Now get him to drink it. I think I found the right spell to help him."

Dean nods and kneels beside Sam. Pearls of sweat are pouring down his brother's face, and Dean places a hand on his shoulder. "Hey. I got something for you, Sam. Open your eyes."

Sam lets out a moan, but Dean shakes him gently. "Sammy, this will help. Come on."

Mary comes forward and kneels on the other side, brushing back Sam's hair and cupping his face as she whispers gently, "Sam. Wake up, sweetheart."

Sam doesn't respond any more enthusiastically. Dean and Mary continue to kneel there, each trying to awaken Sam, until, at last, he stirs with a pained groan. Dean's heart clenches. "Hey," he says in a low voice. "That's it, buddy, just open your eyes for a bit and sit up."

Sam sighs and turns towards Dean's voice. After what seems like an eternity, he finally opens an eye. Dean removes his hand from his shoulder as he pushes the cup towards Sam. "We've got a healer to see you," he says, "he's going to help. You just need to drink this first."

Sam's dull eyes swivel to the cup, and then to Dean. Finally, he nods weakly. Dean smiles, as he and Mary prop Sam up in a combined effort to lean him against the wall. Dean then takes the tea, stirs it with the small, plastic spoon and brings it to Sam's mouth.

Trembling hands rise up as Sam decides to prove his independence. Dean lets him have the cup but his hands linger around Sam's so that his brother won't drop hot tea all over himself. Sam raises the cup to his lips and starts sipping, throat bobbing as the warm liquid goes down. Dean watches him drink and Sam slumps, visibly relieved, when he drains the vessel. Mary gently takes it away from him and Dean helps Sam lay down again. His brother raises grateful eyes to him before shutting them again, this time, giving in to sleep, because Dean can recognise those even breaths anywhere.

He watches Sam relax, and the healer comes to join him and Mary, spell-book in hand. "I need to perform this spell," he says, pointing to a page. "And while I do it, you have to leave, as the energy generated by it might affect you too."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "And what about you?"

"It won't affect me," he replies, eyes twinkling, "as I'm the caster."

Dean nods, and makes to get up, as he glances at Sam again. His brother looks so relieved; Dean can kiss Lawson for it. He doesn't like leaving Sam with someone strange when he's like this, but what the hell, Lawson proved himself trustworthy. So Dean follows his mother out and shuts the door behind him. He takes a deep breath. Finally, things are starting to look like they're in control.

**~o~**

**_Castiel_ **

They are riding back to the abandoned house as quickly as they can, with John at the wheel, and Castiel has to admit that he's anxious. They think they have the riddle figured out, and it doesn't sound good. At least, not according to their interpretation of it.

" _Cut down with each death sour,"_ John says the line out loud. "Do you really think this has got something to do with the curse? Isn't it a little… I don't know, over-the-top?"

"He has been showing steady hourly worsening," Castiel replies. Sunlight beams off the black exteriors of the car, and the day is clear. After the thunderstorm in the night, the sky seems to have cleared up.

John scratches at his stubble, one hand on the wheel. "Yeah, but _death_? He got worse; he didn't _die_ every hour."

"Maybe the shaman describes the excruciating pain as deathly," Castiel points out. For a moment, he doubts himself, but he lets it slide. This is the only thing that fits. They can't find anything else.

"So before something terrible happens to my son—"

"We've got less than an hour," says Castiel.

John doesn't reply. He only speeds up the Impala.

**~o~**

**_Dean_ **

The cell phone vibrating in Dean's pocket distracts him from his thoughts. He's waiting in the living room, sitting on one of the couches as he waits for Lawson to finish healing his brother. A string of questions are popping in his head, and he wonders what his dad and Cas have figured out. And he's just about to call them, when his phone alerts him.

He picks it up and notices that it's a hunter friend; Mitch. Dean had called Mitch earlier for healer references, and he'd said he'd get back to Dean with the info.

"Hey," Dean says, as he receives the call.

"I got a name. Legit healer," the hunter replies, without greeting Dean.

"Yeah," Dean replies, "uh, actually, I forgot to call you back. We already got a guy."

"Oh," Mitch says, sounding a little confused. "There's just one I can find in that area. Is he the same guy?"

"I don't know," Dean says, "Matthew Lawson the man you know?"

"Matthew Lawson?"

"Matthew Lawson," Dean confirms.

"Dude," Mitch says, "that ain't possible."

"Why?"

"Matt Lawson is dead."

"What?" Dean is on his feet.

"Yep," Mitch replies. "Doornail. Snuffed it five years ago. I was there when they cremated him—"

Dean doesn't hear the rest of what Mitch says, the phone slipping through his fingers to crash to the floor as he rushes towards Sam's room.

**~o~**

**_Castiel_ **

Dean will disapprove of the way that John careens the Impala to a halt, but Castiel gets the thought out of his mind as he throws the door open and hops out, slamming it behind him and rushing to the house. They have very little time before the shaman tries to kill Sam, and they have to stop him.

Mary opens the door, obviously having heard the car from inside, and Castiel is surprised to see the distraught expression on her face. "What's wrong?" he asks her, as John joins him at the door.

She just points inwards, worry crowding her features. "It's Sam—" she begins, and Castiel doesn't wait for her finish as he starts rushing into the room that Sam had been sleeping in. And he skids to a halt, only to see the door ajar and Dean kneeling next to an empty sleeping bag. And in Dean's hand is a small, grey feather, along with a note which Castiel squints to read.

_Get my son._

**~o~**

**_Sam_ **

Sam is in a world of colours and pain. Hands are on him, dragging him… taking him somewhere. But… where? The ache that he's experiencing is no longer just in his head. The migraine is persistent, accompanied by a dull, diffuse throbbing through his body.

"That's it," says a strange voice, and Sam realises he's on his feet, stumbling along an uneven path with someone dragging him. He blinks, and his vision is blurry at best as everything goes round and round. "That's it," the voice says again. "I'll have you prettied up for when your brother arrives."

Sam opens his mouth. "D-DD…"

"He's definitely looking for you right now," the voice says, and Sam's vision clears briefly to allow him to catch a glimpse of a hooded figure, about as tall as him. The shaman continues to talk. "But Dean's heart is about to break, you know. He will find you, but you'll not be alive."

No. No, Sam has to do something about this. He can't… he has to leave. Somehow.

He blunders, barely held up by the hands, but he grits his teeth. He can do this. He waits for the blackness to dissipate again and when it does, he pushes Gan's hands off him.

His legs are shaky, feeling like over-boiled noodles, but Sam runs. He can see the green of the trees and brown of their bark around him and has no clue where he's running, as he half-trips, hearing Gan following him. The air turns suddenly cold.

Sam doesn't care. His hands briefly connect with tree-trunks, vision blurring in and out as he keeps his support, but it doesn't hold for long and he soon finds himself crashing to the leaf-covered forest floor.

"Where is he… where is he?"

Sam barely hears Gan's words before going back to floating in blackness.


	12. The Familiar

**Nine: The Familiar**

**_Dean_ **

The feather trembles in Dean's hand as he observes it. It's small, just about ten centimetres in length, and it's grey, shaded with white. If Dean didn't know any better, he'd have thought it belonged to a pigeon. Except, pigeons are larger. He looks at Castiel and shows him the feather. "The healer was the fucking shaman, Cas. He took Sam, and…"

"He left that?"

Dean nods, as he crushes the feather in his hand. "The douchebag will pay."

Castiel moves beside him. "Dean," he says quietly, "we only have an hour."

" _What_?"

"The note," Castiel replies. "We had it translated." He pulls out a piece of paper from his pocket and begins to read.

_"You have but ten times of an hour_

_Cut down with each death sour_

_Return what I have lost_

_Or dearly you shall pay the cost."_

A chill runs down Dean's spine as Castiel finishes reading. A sense of foreboding envelops him. So they only had ten hours, and nine have already passed? Wanting to understand more of the riddle, he holds his hand out for the paper, and Castiel silently gives it to him. Dean's eyes follow the scrawled writing of the person who translated the note. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm down. Freaking out right now will help no one. Sam needs him.

Dean's read the riddle four times when he frowns. "Ten times of an hour, I get. But the next bit? 'Cut down with each death sour'? That's like saying a new death happens every hour."

"I think the shaman meant to say that Sam would get worse by the hour, unless you gave him your father's blood and his son's soul in that vial, and that he would only wait ten hours before making the curse kill Sam," Castiel explains.

"But it's been more than nine hours and we never gave him the vial or the blood," Dean replies, not convinced. "Bastard must have gotten scared — must have thought we have something up our sleeves." He sighs. This is the first time that someone has overestimated them. "But _new_ _death_? Isn't that a little over the—?" Dean pauses, as it all begins to make sense. "No. No way. The son of a bitch," he growls as he pulls out his Beretta and starts to make his way out of the house.

"Dean!"

He barely listens to his mother as he walks as fast as he can with his injuries, and he can hear footsteps following him. He should have guessed. Sam had definitely gotten worse every hour, even after he'd slept, and there was always one thing preceding the worsening of his migraine.

Dean finds the tree where he'd seen the shrike earlier, when they'd returned from Gan's house. The branch is still there, and on it are ten thorns, each with a large insect impaled on it. _New death every hour._ Sam getting sicker each time a prey was added. The fucking shrike had been counting down time for them. Dean grits his teeth and undoes the safety on his gun. He's going to kill this damn thing.

The hairs on his neck prickle as the air around him whooshes, vibrating with a sinister, melodious tune. Goosebumps rise all over Dean's arms. He turns around, only to see a small, grey bird fly through the morning sky, and then circle down to its branch of prey. Dean puts his finger on the trigger.

"Dean! No!" says Castiel, just as Dean is about to shoot. He whips around to see Cas rushing towards him, holding the shrike's feather in his hand. "Don't shoot," Castiel urges. "It's a familiar. It will take us to Gan and inform him that we're ready to fight. We can save Sam."

"Cas," Dean says in a snarl, "this thing—"

"— has got nothing to do with Sam," Castiel rationalises, "except, if Gan realises that we've killed it. Then it's possible that he will kill Sam too."

" _If_ he is alive!"

"Sam is alive," Castiel says, without doubt. "And you know it, Dean. Gan has taken him hostage."

Dean looks at him, at the conviction in his eyes, and nods. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess."

"Do you want to mess that up?" Castiel asks him. "We can finish this. You know we can."

Dean clenches and unclenches his jaw. He stares at the place behind Castiel's shoulder, where John and Mary are standing. The shrike circles them once more, and takes off in the direction of Gan's house, and Dean regrets not shooting it. However, he composes himself. "Mom, Dad," he says, turning to his parents, "you guys stay here. I'll get Sammy back."

John is about to retort, but Mary puts a hand on his shoulder. "Are you sure, Dean?"

"Yeah," Dean replies. "If you come, he'll find some way to take Dad's blood, or kill you. It's best you stay back." He softens his voice. "Please."

Mary continues to look at him, and then nods. John looks like he will disagree, but after a minute he nods too. "Fine. You take care, son. Get Sammy back."

Dean smiles at his father. "You bet I will, Dad."

**~o~**

The drive to Gan's house feels longer than the last time, and Dean's legs are hurting terribly by the time he's parked outside the cottage. As he gets out of the car, he sees the shrike perched on a nearby tree and just looking at it makes Dean's blood boil. But he reins it in as he watches the shrike fly to the cottage, passing through the force-field that had thrown off Sam and Cas earlier.

Their best guess had been that the force-field only deactivated if they had the vial on them, but now Dean reckons it will allow them in regardless, as Gan seems to be in a hurry. And, oh, Dean will be sure to let Gan know that he just made the worst mistake of his pitiful life.

They walk to the spot where the force-field had begun, and Dean watches Cas flinch when they approach it, as if it still pains him when he remembers. However, he squares his shoulders. "I'll go in first."

"No," Dean says, "we'll go in together."

Castiel's eyes fill with concern as he looks at Dean. "I don't want you to get hurt."

"And I won't," Dean replies. "Trust me." He holds out his hand for Cas to take. "Come on."

**~o~**

Dean is still holding Castiel's hand as they walk into the silent cabin. The only light coming in is from the few rays of the sun that can penetrate the canopies of the trees that surround the cottage. What little is visible of the sky is streaked with pale gold, and thin rays are illuminating the cottony clouds. A couple rays of sun enter from the window and fall on an altar of some sort, which is empty at this moment, but which has obviously used for rituals before.

Dean grits his teeth. They will burn all this crap when they find Gan. But first—

He stops short when he steps on something. Cas stops along with him. And what Dean stepped on — it's soft. Like… like…

He looks down.

No. It can't be.

He stepped on someone's hand. The hand of a figure which is slumped on the floor, motionless. A human body.

Dean stares at the unmoving form. The light is barely enough to make out anything, but he can recognise this body — _person_ — from anywhere. And this is… this is…

"Sam."

Dean's knees hit the floor beside his brother and he senses Castiel kneel down just as quickly. How did this happen? How could this have happened? No. Dean would have known. He's always known… always had that gut feeling when something's been truly wrong. And his instincts have never failed him. But…

Dean swallows. Okay, Sam is not moving. But that doesn't mean he's _dead_. It doesn't need to be that way. And Dean won't accept that Sam's dead, until he knows he is.

"Sammy," Dean calls out, placing three fingers to Sam's carotid. Sam's skin is not very warm to the touch, but all that Dean registers is that there's no pounding artery beneath his fingers. There's nothing pumping blood through Sam's body. Which means—

_No. No. Nononono._

Dean gets to his feet, curling his fists as rage slowly begins to filter into him. "GAN!" he hollers, without thinking.

"Dean," Castiel says softly as he stands up. "We should—"

"GAN, YOU SON OF A BITCH, COME OUT _RIGHT_ NOW!" Dean yells. He feels Castiel's hand on his shoulders and whips around to him. "Gerroff me, Cas!" he growls, feeling the warmth of anger crawl up his face. Because this fucking wizard has _killed_ Sam. This fucking no-good, shitface of a shaman has killed Sam, and Dean will fucking peel the bastard's skin off to make a blanket out of it.

"Where the fuck are you, Gan?" Dean asks him. "Come on, face us like the asshole that you are! What, you afraid of a human all of a sud—"

Dean doesn't complete the sentence before he and Castiel are thrown against a wall. The knives and guns fly from their pockets and land on the floor before them. Uneven stone hits the back of Dean's thighs and he tries not to groan as the bruises make themselves known. Instead, he clenches his fists. This shaman is going to pay for killing Sammy. Not only will Dean bring Sam back to life in a Sammy-approved way, he will also fucking torture this cowardly asshole called Gan.

A minute passes. There's a chuckle. "I must say," says a low, eerie voice, "I overestimated you when I sent you that riddle, and then began to wonder if you had other tricks up your sleeve, despite knowing the translation of the curse. I had heard that the Winchesters could do _anything_. I guess they're all wrong, then."

"You hidin'?" Dean scoffs at the unseen opponent, as he struggles against the invisible force. "Of course you are. You don't have the balls to face us, huh? Couldn't even show us your douchey face before you whammied us against the wall." Dean lets out a small laugh. "Oh, you sorry bastard."

The shaman waits for Dean to finish, taking in every word, before replying, "I'm not the one who's the 'sorry bastard', Dean. You should, maybe, look to yourself."

Dean feels spikes of fury hit him. "I don't know what you mean, but if you don't release me from this right now—"

"What will you do?" Gan asks him. "It's not like you have the power to fight back. You never did fight back, did you?"

Castiel's horrified stare is directed at Dean and he struggles some more. How does Gan know? And Cas… Cas knows… but Dean can't let him know for sure. No, no, no one can know… he and Abaddon and that other demon… and Abaddon is dead and Dean will kill the other dick. And no one can know. No one can know what happened… no…

He's hyperventilating, breaths coming out in quicker puffs than he can keep up with. His chest sears with pain and Castiel says something. Every fibre in Dean's body is trembling. His stomach clenches and he feels sick. Miserable.

"Dean…"

Castiel's voice is clearer now, and Dean turns to him. Blue eyes lock with his, anchoring him to themselves. And Cas speaks again. "Breathe."

_"So pathetic."_

"Don't listen to him, Dean, breathe."

_"Weak."_

"Dean, look at me."

Dean decides to obey Cas, and sucks in a breath. Castiel nods. And Dean breathes again.

_"You need help to breathe, Dean Winchester, and you think you can save your brother? Your parents?"_

Cas's voice cuts through. "Keep quiet, you son-of-a-bitch. You have no idea."

Dean's ears pop and he blinks at Cas, his breaths catching up, as Castiel looks towards Gan. If Dean hadn't seen his lips move, he wouldn't have believed that Castiel had just spoken those words. He does know that Cas can speak like this when he's extremely angry or disappointed, but it's very rare and it has to be when Castiel is not thinking so hard and is letting emotions rule him. Dean reckons, though, that Cas's emotions have been tested enough in the last few months alone.

"What would you know?" Castiel continues, his gravelly voice full of loathing. "You're not human. You haven't appreciated or lived the extent of human emotion or suffering. And you stand there, hidden from us, and attack like you're stronger."

Gan chuckles. "Castiel."

Cas doesn't acknowledge it. He struggles against the invisible bonds on him, his face determined, as Dean continues to watch. Dean takes another breath, his mind clearing up, and his eyes fall on Sam again. Dean knows that he'll have to negotiate with Gan to bring Sam back, and he also knows what the price will be. Frankly, when it comes to Sammy, Dean doesn't give a rat's ass about some idiot wizard's son coming back to life, but getting their dad to agree is another thing.

"Dean is already contemplating letting me have my son back," Gan whispers.

"He won't—" Cas turns to look at Dean, but Dean averts his eyes, guilt crawling in. He doesn't want to let Castiel down. But he can't let Sam be dead. No. Especially when he and Sam are just starting to try and be brothers again. He needs his brother by his side. He wants Sam by his side.

"Dean."

Dean refuses to turn around to Cas. Gan laughs again. "I don't lie, Castiel. And I won't lie when I say that I can get you back your grace."

Something jolts inside Dean and he looks up, eyes wide. Gan steps out from behind the wall at the far end of the room, his hiding place then, and he's dressed in a long, purple robe, hood pulled low over his face. He looks up, and Dean can see two purple irises glint from the darkness before the shaman pulls down his hood to reveal a pasty-white face. His eyes are heavily lidded and he is completely bald. A goatee hangs down his chin, tied with what looks like a golden thread.

Gan smirks. "Your grace is not your own, Castiel. And it's affecting you."

"I can retrieve my original grace by myself," Cas snaps back.

"I disagree."

Dean struggles, but talks. "You underestimate him too much, pal."

Gan turns to him, lips curling. "Oh, I think my estimations are just right." He pauses. "So are you two ready to take up my offer or not?"

Dean grits his teeth. "You can go to hell."

"Fine," Gan replies calmly. "I will just send you to your brother then." He raises his hand, fingers wiggling.

Dean snorts. "What are you, air-tickling—" he stops, sudden pain crawling inside him. It stabs at his stomach. "Ungh!" he grunts, unable to help it. Fuck, no. He will not show weakness. He won't show weakness.

"Dean!"

Gan keeps his hand up, turns to Cas. "What say you, now?"

"N-No." Dean says, before Cas can reply. The pain increases, but he keeps his mouth shut. Gan's fingers clench.

"Now?"

"No!"

Dean's vision is clouding with black as tendrils of agony snake through him. It feels like his organs are being ripped apart and he remembers a similar pain from not long ago. He can hear words, and people, and he's losing touch… he doesn't know what's going on. All he knows is that he wants to give up. He can't go through this again. It's too much. He's not strong. No… no…

There are footsteps approaching him. Dean's breath hitches with the pain, as he feels hands probing his pockets, skimming across his jeans.

_Pretty little bitch._

Cold hands on his thighs.

Dean struggles to breathe as the memories start assaulting him. He opens his eyes and he's back in the motel, held up against the wall staring right into dark black eyes.

"No, please," Dean chokes.

He wants to fight. He wants to run—run _anywhere_ rather than be here in this nightmarish place.

He hears an odd muffled sound, someone calling his name. It takes him a few moments but he hears it perfectly then.

Castiel.

Dean concentrates on Cas's voice and he gasps in pain as he's pulled back to reality. He's not in the motel. He's being held against a wall by Gan, who, Dean realises, is searching his pockets for the vial.

And Sammy is dead.

He's not in the motel. He's out. Cas and Sam got him out.

 _No._ Dean tells himself. He's not going to go to that place again. Gan needs to die and Castiel needs Dean.

Dean looks towards Cas and nods to reassure that he's okay. As okay as he can be. He breathes deeply, trying to battle the agony that Gan is still inflicting on him.

"Give it to me," Gan orders menacingly stepping back and glaring daggers at Dean. "Where have you kept it?"

Dean laughs despite the agony. "S-Screw you, asss-sshole," he says. Because seriously. _Fuck him._

The next moment, Gan steps forward and places a palm on Dean's chest. White hot pokers go through his skin and flesh, stealing his breath. His lungs seize up, unable to expand anymore. He yells, squeezing his eyes shut as tears break out. _God. Oh God._

Pain. More pain. Dean vaguely hears Castiel bellowing in anger and fear.

_I'm sorry, Cas._

Blackness starts to creep around the corners of his vision and Dean sags against the bond holding him upright.

_Please just let it be over._

Then, as suddenly as it came, the pain vanishes.

"Don't you touch my brother, you son-of-a-bitch!"

_Sam?_

Dean's vision clears and suddenly, he's free from the wall. He stumbles to the ground but quickly gets to his feet, ignoring the pain from his bruises. He sees Sam with an arm pressed against Gan's neck as he holds the shaman against his body in a combative move. Dean looks to the floor where the dead body still lies… but if that was Sam…

What happened here?

"Release them," Sam snarls, pressing his arm against Gan's throat harder, so that he chokes. Dean knows that Gan has already obeyed, but he feels no sympathy. He bends down to pick up the angel blade and advances towards Gan.

He raises his hand to plunge the knife when Sam gets thrown back against the altar and Gan escapes, charging towards Dean. Dean catches his shoulders, blade still in hand and pushes him against the wall, but a sudden burst of energy blasts him against another wall. Dean hits his head against stone and slides down. When he looks up, blinking against the stars in his eyes, Castiel is locked in combat with Gan.

Cas holds another blade which he's desperately trying to plunge into Gan's chest but the shaman is holding him off, albeit just barely. Dean stands up, stabilises himself, and watches Sam do the same. But before he can take another step forward, there's a blasting sound, and his head collides against the wall again.

Everything goes black. Again. Dean doesn't know what to do, how to escape the dark prison.

_"You're a pretty little bitch, Winchester."_

_"I'm going to fuck you so hard…"_

_Fingers are pulling at Dean's hair… his boxers are around his ankles. The smell of cheap whiskey penetrates the air…_

"It's your last chance. You can have your grace back, Castiel."

_Please stay with me, Cas. Please. I'm not pissed. I won't be pissed. Don't – don't…_

Dean knows that Castiel won't leave once he gets his grace — just that he'll be better, but they need to do this their way, If Cas says yes to this deal, they'll be indebted to Gan and Dean is so, so scared that he'll lose Cas.

_Love you. Loveyouloveyouloveyou. Have I ever said that? Love you. Not pissed. Stay._

He has to get back to Cas. He has to get back… get back.

He opens his eyes, just in time to watch Cas push Gan back. _"No!"_

And Castiel marches forward, shoving Gan against the wall, before holding out the blade and sinking it into Gan's chest.

Dean freezes in place as he watches Gan's mouth open in shock. The shaman heaves a breath and coughs, before a sudden blast of light pours out of him.

Castiel jumps back, shielding his eyes from the purple-white beam, and so does Dean, and he watches Sam copy them from his corner. Purple burns behind Dean's eyelids and is followed by a blast of heat, scorching his skin, blowing his hair back and there's a scream — a loud, high-pitched scream until it all goes silent, cold, and dark again.

Dean opens his eyes reluctantly, but it's dim all around, except for the sunrays which are getting stronger. Castiel stands a few feet away, hands at his sides and shoulders heaving as he takes deep breaths. Before him is a heap of purple robes, but with no one in it. Gan seems to have dissipated into the air.

Cas looks over at Dean and shrugs as he pockets the angel blade. "The blade works on most creatures. I think your father had to do an elaborate ritual with the son because he wasn't aware of the existence of this blade at that time. However, I'm pretty sure that this could kill the son too."

Dean smiles. "Yeah," he says, "but we don't wanna really test that theory." He turns around to see Sam, alive, conscious, and trying to get up from his spot. "Sammy?"

"Ugh," Sam responds, "Think I twisted my ankle." He tries to hoist himself up, grimaces, and sits back down, looking frustrated. Dean moves over to the fake Sam on the floor and turns the body over. The cold skin unnerves him.

"What the hell is this?" he asks.

"Probably a shape-shifter," Sam responds. "Or some illusion crap. Either ways, not me. He was going to kill me, but I escaped. He was looking for me when I passed out."

"You ran that far?" Dean asks him, astonished.

Sam shrugs. "I did, I guess. Or he just didn't have time. He needed to give you an incentive for getting back the vial."

"He's just been giving us incentives all day," Dean snorts. "Well, it's just been good for us."

"It was his son, Dean, I guess he was just pretty desperate," Sam reasons.

"Or stupid."

Sam purses his lips. "What would you do if you were in this situation, and it was me or Cas in that vial?"

"You?" Dean scoffs, "I'd have just left you in that vial. You'd not have been such a pain in my ass, then."

"Ha ha," Sam replies humourlessly. "But really," he continues, more seriously, "how didn't he find me? I was beat."

"Cas and I pretty much left as soon as we found out you were missing," Dean replies. "And I was out of that room for about two or three minutes tops. So pretty sure Gan didn't have too much time."

"He could teleport," Sam replies. "But not beyond his force-field. He was dragging me through the woods around his cottage."

"There you go, then," Dean says. "He wasted time dragging your giant ass. And then you ran and his familiar probably told him that were coming. He tried to find you, but when he realised he didn't have time, he decided to use other means to get what he wanted." He pauses. "Lame, dude."

"Not so much," Sam replies. "I was his insurance. If he told you there was nothing to save, you'd have killed him outright."

Dean sighs as he makes sense of this, and meets eyes with Sam. "Anyway. Whatever that was, you feelin' better?"

Sam raises an eyebrow. "If you're asking about the migraine; that went away long ago. I'm good now. Well," he shrugs, "if you ignore my ankle."

"We'll get you fixed."

Sam nods and smiles slightly. "Okay."

Dean then turns to Cas again, who's leaning against the wall, watching him and Sam with happiness etched on his face. Dean waggles his eyebrows at him. "What are you lookin' at?"

Castiel smiles again, and shakes his head. "I'm just happy that the two of you are talking."

Dean snorts, and then hobbles to his boyfriend. "C'mere."

Before Castiel can react, Dean is next to him, cupping the back of his neck. He hesitates, and then grits his teeth. He wants to this. He needs Cas to know that he isn't scared. That Cas has nothing to do with anything that happened to Dean.

 _Don't think about it_ , says the voice in Dean's head. And as hard as it is, he listens to the voice.

He pulls Castiel's face close, so that their lips can meet. Dean catches Cas's bottom lip within his own and kisses, tilting his face and letting his tongue sweep the borders of Castiel's mouth lightly. Castiel reacts much the same as he grips Dean by the lapels, before bringing both arms to hug Dean and pull him closer.

"Um… guys?"

They break apart to watch Sam standing behind them awkwardly, holding on to the wall for support. He rolls his eyes. "Don't you think I've puked enough for today?"

"Shut up," Dean chides him lightly, and then hurries over to help him. They need to get back to their hideout and bring their parents back to the bunker. Either ways, Dean just wants to get the hell out of this place and try to relax some. And he knows that Sam will probably hug him if he says that, but he isn't going to admit this to the bitch and let him win.

Sam is a heavy bastard, though, and there's only so much weight Dean can support, so it's a long time before they can all get into the Impala from Gan's house after destroying his altar. There are no remains to burn, thank God, no messes this time. And Dean reluctantly allows Castiel to drive as he rides shotgun and shoots glances at Sam in the backseat.

They reach Creepy House and somehow stagger their way in. Dean helps Sam to the couch and goes in to grab a crepe bandage. Their parents aren't in the living room, so Dean assumes they're in one of the rooms inside. When he goes in, John and Mary are nowhere to be seen.

"CAS!"

Castiel comes rushing to Dean's side at his hollering, worry coating his features, and he understands at once when he sees no one around. He licks his lip. "I'll check upstairs."

"Upstairs" is an attic. All they have is the bottom floor with its three rooms, and Dean _knows_ , but he hopes that the theories in his head are wrong. He grabs the Ace bandage and makes his way to Sam, who is worried. "What happened? Where are Mom and Dad?"

Dean shakes his head, unable to reply. Instead, he crouches, rolling up the hem of Sam's pant leg, and starting to feel for anything that might be broken. They'll need to take Sam to the hospital and get him x-rayed, but until then the Ace bandage will have to work. So Dean begins to wrap the bandage, his heart thumping and hands shaking.

There are footsteps. "Dean."

Dean knows from the tone, but he still looks up at Cas, who shakes his head. Dean drops the bandage. "No."

Castiel's eyes are filled with sympathy. "I think they were attached to Gan—"

"NO!"

Dean is suddenly on his feet, his hands going to grab Castiel's collar while Sam gets up unsteadily and holds him back. "Dean!"

"You killed him!" Dean snarls. "KILLED HIM!"

Castiel's eyes are downcast. "Yes—"

"You should have just fucking trapped him like Dad did, but _no_ …"

Sam twists an arm around Dean's middle and pulls him back but Dean's anger flares at his brother. "Sam! Don't hold me back, dammit!"

"Dean, stop," Sam says in his ear, not easing his grip. "Cas didn't know."

"Mom and Dad—"

"—were dead until yesterday and we've lived without them. We can do this. Dean, you'll do it, you'll do it, right?" Sam's voice shakes, and Dean loosens, whipping his head around to see that Sam's eyes are moist. All the anger drains out of Dean in one go, only to be replaced by growing heaviness in his chest.

Sam sniffs. "We've fought a lot, man. The three of us. We've suffered too much. Please, just…"

"Yeah," Dean says softly, not waiting for Sam to complete his sentence. "Yeah, Sammy."

Sam releases Dean and slumps back down on the couch, raising puppy eyes designed specifically to break Dean's heart. "I wish they could stay. I really do. But we're not alone, and I don't want us to be alone."

Dean nods glumly, sinking onto the couch beside his brother. "Yeah. Sorry, man."

Sam presses his lips together, sniffs again, and bends over to wrap the crepe bandage by himself. Dean watches him and remembers how a couple of hours ago his brother was curled up with the worst migraine ever and how they'd found him missing, with the single shrike feather on his sleeping bag. And those meds in Sam's bag… _God_ … what were they for?

He remembers how much closer Sam and Cas are, and realises that there was much more that happened when he was gone, than he thinks. They went through their own shit. And here Dean was, whining about himself and pitying himself when… when…

"Sammy," Dean whispers. Sam looks up at him expectantly, and Dean clears his throat. "You're – you're not gonna die on me, are you? Your ticker doing fine?"

Sam blinks, not understanding the question, and then realises what Dean means. He bites his lip. "The meds are for controlling BP — not a heart disease. I uh…" he scratches at his hair, "I had some episodes while you were…" he makes a vague hand gesture. "Anyway," he clears his throat, "nothing you gotta worry about."

Dean knows he's lying. Somehow, something inside him tells him that this is not the whole story, but he decides to bite. Sam will tell him in his own time. But this also means that Dean very nearly came to losing Sam just a few months ago. Or was it weeks?

He remembers finding "Sam" dead in Gan's house and before he knows it, he's filled with conflicting emotions clogging his throat and he leans forward, grabbing Sam by the shoulders and pulling him into a hug. Sam stiffens for a second, chuckles, and then hugs him back.

"Nothing I gotta worry about, huh?" Dean asks him, arms still wrapped around his brother.

"No," Sam confirms.

"Good," Dean says, pulling away and holding Sam by the shoulders as he smiles. "Cause if you die on me, Sammy, I'll kill you."

And the smile he gets from Sam for that, the genuine, wide, all-teeth, all-dimples smile is the best thing he's seen in ages.


	13. Not a Fairy Tale

**Ten: Not a Fairy Tale**

**_Sam_ **

They decide to stay over at Creepy House a few more hours since none of the three of them has slept, and no one is alert enough to drive. Plus, they're all pretty much wrecked after the fight with Gan and everything that happened later.

Sam lies in his sleeping bag, staring outside at the sunlight and unable to get Dean out of his mind. Dean — who smiled for a while and seemed genuinely happy to have Sam alive, but couldn't cope later. Sam knows that he should have expected this. He had known, deep inside, that his parents would probably vanish along with Gan if they killed him, and he'd thought of what that would feel like, although he hadn't imagined how it would affect Dean.

His brother had escaped to one of the three rooms with his sleeping bag and had woken up yelling from another nightmare, after which he'd had a panic attack. Sam had staggered over as swiftly as he could with his tender ankle, and he had stayed until he was able to help Dean calm down. Then he'd left; Dean still needs time, even if things are better between them now.

Sam sighs and turns to his side, still unable to sleep. He can't stop thinking of the things that Dean yells out in his nightmares (and they're vague things — like Dean's telling someone that he can't be controlled). The worst of it is that Sam knows what went down with Dean —he's sure of it —, but he can't even think of bringing it up because it will upset Dean for sure. It's not something that Sam can just expect Dean to be okay discussing. And Sam knows.

From experience.

(Lucifer. Manacles. A whisper in his ear: _Sammyyyy_.)

He shrugs himself out of the memories. Lucifer's voice whispers again, making his skin crawl. Fire flashes before his vision. He holds his breath and blinks it all away until it's gone. He can't have those memories back… nope. He will go insane. Probably end up in the locked psych ward again. So he stops thinking about it. No Lucifer. No Hell. Dean is suffering and that is important right now. This isn't about Sam.

 _Sammyyyyyyy_.

He sits up abruptly, gets back on his feet and staggers out again, holding on to walls and limping to avoid putting much weight on his sore ankle. When he reaches Dean's room there's silence, and Sam braces himself before peering through the crack in the doorway.

Dean is on his sleeping bag, staring up at the ceiling. His eyes are fixed on one point, lids blinking sluggishly, with his fingers interlocked and his hands on his chest. If Sam didn't know better, he'd say that Dean looks peaceful. But he knows what's going on in Dean's head. It's got nothing to do with peace.

Sam knocks. He and Dean are used to barging in on each other without knocking, but Sam does it this time. He's been mostly out of his mind, eager to help Dean for the last few days, ever since they got him back. The last few hours have been too eventful, but Sam has had time to think now: he needs to let his brother heal. Needs to start working towards letting him heal instead of interfering every time. And the first step to that is to give Dean his control back. To let him know that his autonomy and privacy are safe.

However, Sam also needs Dean to know that he's ready to help, should his brother need it. Which is why he's going to do something he'd never thought of doing.

"Come in."

Dean sounds exhausted when he says it, his voice hoarse and sleepy. Sam opens the door and enters, before the shutting the door behind him. As close as Dean and Cas are, Sam doesn't want Castiel present during this conversation unless Dean wants it that way. Sam isn't sure he wants Castiel to know certain things about _him,_ Sam.

Dean doesn't attempt to move from his position on the floor. He's still blinking up at the ceiling, and Sam limps over to plop himself down and perch at the edge of Dean's makeshift bed. He doesn't look at Dean, and just waits for a few moments before sucking in a deep breath and staring at the wall opposite. They he presses his lips together.

"Hey."

His brother remains silent. Sam rubs a hand over his eyes. Maybe he chose the wrong time to come over. He should do this some other time. Maybe he should—

"We were living without them until a few hours ago," Dean says suddenly, in a low voice, interjecting Sam's thoughts. He swallows audibly. "But I miss Mom."

Sam doesn't ask him why he doesn't miss Dad.

"Dad… you know," Dean continues, "it's not as if I don't wish he were here. But… man, _Mom_. I forgot how she used to—" his voice breaks and he pauses. Then he clears his throat. "I forgot how awesome she was."

Sam smiles. "Yeah," he says, "she was pretty darn awesome."

He feels Dean's eyes on him, but Sam continues to stare at the wall. "Sam," Dean says at long last, "I'm sorry, man."

He shakes his head. "Why would you be sorry?"

"What I said. You know… earlier."

Sam knows. Dean is talking about their argument from a few hours ago before Sam's migraine got worse. He shrugs. "It's all right, man."

"I told Mom, you know," Dean says.

"What?"

"To not take what I said seriously. Told her I was just pissed."

But this doesn't mean that Dean has forgiven Sam for his mistakes. And Sam doesn't think he deserves complete forgiveness either. Dean stirs and starts to sit up. Sam turns around to him, but doesn't offer to help, as he remembers the rules he made in his head earlier about Dean's healing. _Treat him normally. Not like he needs help._

Dean sits up, folds his legs and wraps his arms around them. Sam purses his lips as he looks down. Their shoulders touch. Then Dean sighs. "I'm also sorry about the way I am with you and Cas. I didn't… I don't actually mean… I don't—" he pauses, " _fuck_ , Sam, I'm just pissed, and I wish it didn't come out on you guys, okay?"

Sam doesn't nod. Doesn't acknowledge it. He blinks, and concentrates on the peeling paint on another wall. His heart is going a mile a minute in his chest, and he knows Dean is watching him. But Dean has to know. Has to know that Sam understands, and there's no need for apologies here. So he blinks again, pushes his hair back, and pretends to look at his screwed-up ankle. Then he clears his throat. "I know."

Dean frowns as Sam looks up at him. "You _know_?" It's as if he expected Sam to say something else ("I forgive you" "I can understand"), but Sam just nods.

"I know." He pauses, and takes a deep breath, only to look away again. Somehow, he can't see Dean's face while saying this. He keeps nodding. "Yeah. I've been pissed too."

Dean snorts. "I guess it just runs in the—"

"Lucifer," Sam breathes, before his brother can finish.

" _What?_ "

The response is instantaneous, and Sam reluctantly looks at Dean, whose eyes are wide and confused. Sam licks his lip. "When I was in Hell." He takes a breath. "I can remember… the torture was…" he feels tightness in his chest even thinking about it, and he wants to get up and walk out. But Dean needs to know. He needs to realise that he can trust Sam.

"Do you still see him?" Dean asks Sam in a low voice.

"Not while I'm awake," Sam admits. "Not as a hallucination. But…" he clenches his jaw, "I can't forget, Dean."

The instinct to run away is getting stronger. Sam plants his palms on the sides and blinks away a prickling sensation in his eyes. "He would… you know, chain me. So I couldn't move while…" he bites his lip, and can't go on. But he doesn't need to talk for Dean to get the gist of it.

"Sam?" Dean's voice is a hoarse whisper and when Sam finally finds the guts to face Dean, Dean's eyes are full of sorrow, anger and shock. He opens his mouth a tad, and then shuts it. "Why didn't you…? Oh, God." He looks straight ahead for a moment, before looking at Sam again. "Sam, why didn't you say?"

Sam scoffs. "What, and ease the burden of Cas and Bobby dying?" He tries to shrug casually, but it comes out as a huge tremble of his shoulders. His breaths are getting quicker as he chest starts to heave and he reins in the overwhelming emotion because he _can't_. And somewhere, he does manage to speak, although his voice sounds alien to him. "I mostly just didn't know what to do about it, Dean," he says at long last.

"What do you mean, 'what to do'?"

Sam smiles. "I mean, I went to Hell because I was trying to take down Lucifer, who I freed in the first place."

"If you say you deserved it, Sam, I'll fucking end you."

"I didn't fucking _deserve_ it!" Sam protests. "But I was just… if you thought—"

"You thought _I_ would think you deserved it?" Dean asks incredulously, eyes boring into Sam's. "Is that what you're saying? That I'm so screwed in the head, just 'cause you made a mistake, I'd think you deserved to be tortured and sliced and carved and – and—?" He clenches his jaw, and doesn't even say the word.

He turns away, and looks at Sam again. His voice shakes when he speaks this time, lowered by several decibels. "Sammy, I— _God_ … I didn't even…" he runs a hand through his hair, letting it rest there, with strands peeking from the gaps between his fingers. "I didn't even _try_ to help… and you…"

"It's not your fault," Sam says quietly. The burning in his eyes is getting worse as memories resurface. He pushes them away. This isn't about him, no, no, this is about Dean.

"You were… you were actually… oh, fuck…" Dean's mouth is slightly agape. He's still in denial and shock, and trying to grasp on to the entirety of it. He looks wounded when he faces Sam, though, eyes bright and lower lip twitching. "You really think I wanted that for you? You couldn't tell — because you thought I'd kick you further, instead of helping." He lets out a humourless chuckle. "I can tell how it's not my fault that you actually believed I could do that," he says sarcastically.

Sam looks at the floor. "It's not about that."

"Then explain it to me, Sam. What is this about?"

"I just… I didn't think I could even handle the remotest chance of it, Dean," Sam sighs. "I was so… gosh, I was fucked up and all I needed was — and if you…" he swallows again, but the lump in his throat gets bigger.

Dean is silent for a while. And then—

"Just get out, man."

"Dean—"

Dean scoffs disbelievingly. "I got to know what exactly you think of me. After everything I've done for you too."

"It's not like that."

"It fucking _is_ like that!" Dean replies, almost yelling.

"It was hard," Sam says, looking up at Dean again, and all energy to argue is gone. He can feel the tears crowding his vision and he blinks them away, gritting his teeth. "It was fucking hard, okay? And all that was happening to Bobby and Cas — and you were drinking _all the time_ ; and I'd done so much shit to you with the demon blood and while I was soulless, I didn't know if you'd forgive me. And if you didn't—" Sam bites his lip. "If you didn't, Dean…" _I wouldn't have been able to handle it._

"Forgive you for _what_ , exactly? For mistakes that were mostly out of your hands?"

"I don't – I don't—" Sam's voice breaks and he just shrugs. His vision his blurring again and he licks his bottom lip as he blinks the tears in.

Dean watches him, for a moment, for an eternity. Then when he speaks, he sounds calmer. "Sam, you're my brother, dude. My family. You really think I'd hold a grudge like _that_?"

Sam doesn't speak. Dean inches closer and bumps shoulders with him. "Sammy, why do you think I went looking for Cas when they locked you in that damned psych ward? Why do I even try to save your life?" He pauses. "You really just think I'm selfish, huh." There is no anger in his voice as he says it.

"It was just hard, Dean," Sam repeats losing control over a tear as it escapes his eye. "I… sometimes, I'd want to tell you, but with your own shit, and – and—" his voice refuses to go above a whisper, "I was…"

"Ashamed," Dean whispers in continuation. Sam nods. The first tear is joined by another one, and then another and Sam's mouth twitches, face starting to crumple as he hides it in his hands to get over the storm raging inside him.

Beside him, Dean blows out a breath. Sam can feel his shoulders trembling, and a light hand rests on them, as Dean speaks to him. "There's nothing to be ashamed of, Sammy."

The memories are too much. They come in quick succession, but Sam somehow replies to Dean as he suppresses them again. No. This is not the time. He can mourn on some other day. He's mourned enough anyway. It's Dean's turn now.

"I know," Sam says, looking up and steeling himself as he swipes at his damp cheeks. "I know that _now."_ He sniffles, pauses, and looks at Dean through swollen eyes. "Do you?"

The hand on Sam's shoulders lingers, and is gone. Dean shakes his head slowly. "I don't… I – my situation was different."

"You don't have to talk about it, Dean," Sam tells his brother. "But you don't have to be ashamed."

"Sure, after all she made me do—"

Sam presses his lips together. "You don't have to be ashamed of that either. I do know a thing or two about possession, if you remember."

"Doesn't stop you from blaming yourself."

"I don't blame myself for Meg," Sam clarifies. "But I did let Lucifer in. And I let Gadreel in, too."

"You trusted me."

"I still trust you."

"Why?"

Sam sighs. "Because we won't stop being brothers."

Dean arches his eyebrows. "Thought you didn't want that anymore."

"You really, really hurt me, Dean. Maybe I wanted to get back at you. Maybe I wanted to tell you that I'd never manipulate you into being possessed. And maybe you didn't hear me right."

"You said—"

"I said _same_ circumstances." Sam retorts at his brother. "Please don't tell me you don't understand. Please don't tell me that I overreacted to being possessed."

"You didn't. You were right to be pissed." Dean licks his lip. "So you won. We done?"

"It's not about me winning," Sam says softly.

"Whatever, man."

"I just want you to know," Sam bites the inside of his cheek, "I _understand_."

"I know you do." Dean meets Sam's eyes, and he sees pure trust in his big brother's eyes. That's when Sam _knows_ that Dean will be honest when he needs to. This is just not the moment.

Sam nods. He realises that this is the end of their conversation. He'd really thought he could get Dean to open up, but Dean is obviously not ready, and Sam won't push. Hell, it took him three years to actually talk to Dean, and his brother is justified at wanting to take his time. So Sam won't make him feel like he has to talk. Won't force him. He wanted Dean to know that he can relate, and he got that across.

He makes to stand up from his position. "I should catch some sleep." However, a hand clutches his wrist and suddenly, Sam is looking at his brother's face again.

"Stay."

**~o~**

When they return to the bunker, Sam tries to believe that life is back to normal. He reminds himself that he and Dean did, indeed, cope for many years without their parents. In the few hours that they had risen, there were so many parts of their lives that neither Sam nor Dean could share— and John and Mary were just left wondering. Their Mom had even been younger than them. It was awkward, at best.

Sam would never forget it, though: having his dad back, stubborn and solid, and Mom, so beautiful and comforting. The short time with them had been a gift to Sam, in many ways. How many people get to meet their dead parents, even if for a few hours? Sam knows that he has much to be thankful for, and instead of commiserating; he tries to remember all of it.

Dean had gotten better after the talk. Sam had stayed in the room, leaning against the wall and dozing as Dean slept, for the first time in days, without being attacked by a nightmare. They'd rested the whole day, and started back to the bunker the next morning.

Sam went to a local clinic and got his ankle tested. It's a sprain, and the doctor advised the crepe bandage, some icing and rest. Sam, however, drives them all home with the ankle because he's had worse.

They reach the bunker late evening and have dinner in silence. Castiel is feeling better and his grace is not doing weird things anymore — not for now. Sam takes his pills and Dean watches him take them, although he doesn't question Sam again. He also takes Sam's BP, and it's normal. After that, they're all tired enough to head to bed.

Castiel is taking a shower when Dean tucks himself in. He and Cas used to share the room for a while before he was taken by Abaddon but after they got him back, Dean's been sleeping alone. Sam knows that even though Dean trusts Cas, it's going to be hard for him to accept Cas's touch because of everything that has happened. But Dean is making a definite effort. He wants to recover, and is starting to try, and that's all Sam needs for now.

Sam drops by his brother's room before heading to his own. "Come in," Dean says, when Sam knocks at the door, and he snorts when Sam enters. "When did you start to knock?"

"You don't want me to?" Sam asks him.

Dean smiles. "Nah, c'mon, man. We've shared motel rooms all our lives. Stop trying to respect my privacy. It's weird."

Sam chuckles right along. "If that's what you want."

Dean stops smiling and presses his lips together. "So… uh, you okay?"

Sam tilts his head. "I'll be fine. You?"

"Yeah, me too."

Sam nods, and heads towards the door again. "Sleep tight."

Dean doesn't reply. He just watches as Sam turns the doorknob and steps out. Sam is about to shut the door behind him, when Dean calls out to him. "Sammy."

He turns around, to see that Dean has hoisted himself against the headrest. His eyes flit to Sam's and then he looks down at his hands. He swallows. "It was at a motel, you know."

Sam raises his eyebrows as he gets back in in. "What?"

"It was a motel… where…" Dean swallows again and looks up at Sam again. His expression is wounded again, raw and open, and Sam wishes he could do something, but he's just frozen where he is as he watches his brother struggle. He bites his lip.

"Dean. . ." _You don't have to talk. I promise I'll never ask._

"It was a demon," Dean goes on, his voice dropping to a shaky murmur. He blinks a few times. "Abaddon… uh, she really g-got a…" He bites his lip and Sam's heart misses a beat as he spots a tear trickling down Dean's cheek. "She really got a kick out of it," Dean explains, trailing the back of his wrist over his wet cheek. "And I tried… I really tried…"

"Dean," Sam breathes, perching at the edge of his brother's bed. "You couldn't have helped it, man. What happened—"

"Bobby took over that demon who possessed him," Dean replies. "Dad took over Azazel for a while… and you got over Lucifer. I could have — s-should have… fuck…" another tear lands on the white bedspread, making a damp, grey spot. Dean sniffs. "I-I just… s-sorry for how I was earlier," he says. "Just wanted you to know that it was a motel and that's why… that's why I couldn't…" Dean's chin twitches as he trails away.

Sam remembers the panic attack Dean had had outside the motel, in the car as it all falls into place. But his throat feels constricted when he speaks. "You can't blame yourself, Dean. What I did — with Lucifer, it was pure luck." _It was because of you. Because of us._

"Bullshit," Dean mutters.

"Honest," Sam counters. "But you know what? Even if you'd have gained control, there's no saying…" he pauses, and sighs, the word at the tip of his tongue. It feels bitter in his head, and he can't bear to think of it, but he swallows and braces himself.

"Dean… the-the thing — I… I m-mean… r-rape…" and he halts again, to catch his breath, and says it again. "R-Rape, whatever the circumstance — whether you were possessed or not, or whether you were in full strength or not — it's not your fault. You're not to blame. And," anger rises in Sam as he clenches his jaw, "you can bet I'll find the bastard and kill him."

"There's no need," Dean says weakly.

"He doesn't get to do this crap to you and escape, Dean," Sam replies. But then he remembers the rule he made in his head. _Let Dean take control._ So Sam corrects himself. "That's what I think — but if you don't want to, I won't do anything. Yeah?"

His brother doesn't respond, so Sam reaches a hand and tugs at Dean's great toe. "Hey, you hearing me? We'll get back at him if and when you say so. Until then," he chuckles, "we should probably check out that Harry Potter theme park."

Dean is silent for a long time. He continues to keep his gaze downwards and Sam wonders if he should leave Dean to himself, when, finally, he hears the faint reply from his brother. "Always knew you were a geek."

Sam grins. "Come on, man, it will be fun. We can have Butterbeer."

"Dude," Dean says, looking up at Sam, mild amusement written over his features. "That's not even real alcohol."

"We could spike it."

Dean snorts. "Yeah. _You'd_ spike your drink with whiskey. I can totally see that."

Sam raises an eyebrow. "Wanna bet?"

"Sure," Dean replies. "I win, and you do laundry for a whole month."

"And if I win," Sam says, "I get to pick the music in the car for the whole month."

"Hey, that's not fair!"

"Is too," Sam says. "So is it a deal? What do you say; we make it a weekend trip? Cas would be amused. He needs a break too."

Dean contemplates it for a minute. Then he shakes his head. "Nah." And he deflates considerably as he says it. "I think I wanna rest a while anyway."

Sam looks at him for a long moment. "If you say so." He knows that this is a part of it all. In his life — ever since Dean went to Hell, Sam's known this current state of mind that Dean is in, and he knows that Dean knows it from before too. Sam remembers the days when he'd never want to rest or sit in one place because it made him think and remember how shitty his life was, and then there'd be days when he wouldn't feel like getting out of bed either. It had come and gone and there had been that time when Sam had had to anchor himself to Dean — to trust his stone number one to ride through it. Now, Dean is going through the same. Again.

Gosh, their lives are fucked-up.

**~o~**

**_Dean_ **

Sam leaves the room after their talk, and the discussion about the Harry Potter theme park and Dean reclines into his comforter again, feeling like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. Or rather, like he has another helping shoulder to carry the burden. But Dean has another thing weighing down on his chest, as he remembers everything that Sam had said — or not said — about his time in Hell. Dean had guessed a lot of things before — many things; except, except…

 _Rape_.

The sound of the word in his own head makes him clench his fists. He'd never allowed himself to think of it, of the _word_ , because if he did it would become real. Or so he had thought. Truth is, it's been real enough for Sam and Cas to notice and to guess correctly. And Dean — Dean is such a freaking moron that he hadn't even been able to understand this very thing, when the situation had been such with his brother. Sam had carried it around all by himself, and Dean had gone and continued to drink from that damned flask. And this was apart from the fact that Sam thought Dean wanted all this crap for him.

Dean now knows exactly how amazing he is as a person.

He tries to push the thoughts away. His chest is aching, but not in the physical sense. He just wants to sleep for a long time and not wake up for months — maybe years — until he can start to take this undeniable pain. Maybe he'll be able to look back at it someday without feeling like the agony will rip him from the inside-out. Maybe he'll stop replaying the moments in his head while he sleeps, and again during his waking moments. Maybe it will all be just a terrible nightmare.

_You're a pretty little bitch, Winchester._

_Oh, I could just bite at those lips of yours. Can you imagine them when—?_

"Dean?"

His thoughts are interrupted by Castiel's voice. Dean looks up to see his boyfriend, peeking apprehensively from the doorway, and he shakes the memories away. He tries to smile. "Hey, Cas."

"Hello, Dean," Cas replies, as he opens the door wider. "I just wanted to say 'goodnight'. I hope you sleep well."

Dean smiles genuinely this time, and beckons to Cas. "C'mere."

Castiel enters and makes his way to Dean, blinking confusedly. Dean extends a hand and slowly clutches on to Castiel's palm to pull him forward. Dean raises eyes to Cas. "You take care, yeah?"

"I'm always careful," Castiel replies. "But sometimes, things work against me."

"Yeah," Dean says, "but…" _I love you_. "But… uh, just – just let us know if you need help. Don't hide things from me, man."

Castiel nods earnestly. "I will not." Dean expects him to say something further; something about the rape, but Castiel doesn't say anything else, except, "Would you still prefer that I sleep in another room?"

Dean swallows. "For now, yeah."

"Okay." Cas says nothing else as he makes to leave.

Dean lets go of his hand and watches Castiel as he reaches the door. He licks his lip. "Cas?"

"Yes?"

"I… I lo— uh…" he changes his sentence midway, "I l-let Sam have that last cookie." He chuckles nervously. "S-Sorry."

Castiel blinks once, blue eyes holding him mesmerised, and then he smiles faintly. "I know. I love you too, Dean." He smiles a little more before as he leaves the room, and Dean realises that Cas is far more human than he thinks. The thought brings him warmth as he slides back into a comfortable cocoon of blankets, willing sleep to take him and hoping for nightmares to stay away.

**~o~**

Sleep doesn't come easily. Dean keeps replaying the previous day in his head and all he can think of is how everything is always taken away from his life. It's not fair. After everything, neither he nor Sam deserved to lose their parents again. However, that's apparently how a Winchester's life is.

Somewhere after midnight, Dean is too frustrated to sleep anymore. He is tired of accepting that he and Sam are just too screwed up to have a good life, and he's tired of taking things as they come just because their lives are so fucking impossible. He's tired of being controlled; tired of things ruling over him and Sam, and he realises that he can hardly take the anger that's threatening to overwhelm him.

Dean sits up in bed. After a few minutes, he makes a decision and pulls on a robe before limping over to their dungeon, trying not to make a sound, and holding on to walls and pillars for support. He collects some books and materials from the library and store room on the way, and within a half-hour Dean is kneeling beside a bowl full of various ingredients, chanting in Latin.

He lights a match and throws it into the mix, waiting; waiting patiently until—

"Should I be flattered that you remembered me at this time of the night?"

Dean looks up at the figure before him and staggers to his feet, rubbing at his arm, at the non-existent Mark. From the other side, Crowley smirks at him. "I expected you to be less handicapped when you called me," he says.

"Screw you," Dean says bitterly.

"Sure," Crowley replies, crossing his arms. "But I'm not sure that's what you called me here for." He pauses. "Congratulations, by the way. On getting _her_ out. Although Moose could have at least sent a thank-you note."

"What did _you_ have to do with this?" Dean asks Crowley.

"Everything," the demon replies. "Or didn't your brother tell you? He had no idea you were possessed by that ugly ginger. He thought it was some poor bugger from my side."

"You didn't help him, though," Dean says. "It was him and Cas in the end."

"I sacrificed a loyal member!" Crowley says indignantly. "What do you think lured Abaddon into that cabin? Your brother's lustrous locks?" He narrows his eyes. "So tell me. What do you want?"

"I want my parents back alive," Dean tells him without preamble.

"Ah. A deal."

"Not a deal," Dean snarls. "Just bring them back, you dickhead."

Crowley raises his eyebrows. "I can't do that, Squirrel, and you know it."

"The hell you can't," Dean snaps. "I took on the Mark for you. Got my life screwed over by Abaddon because she decided to find me before you found the fucking Blade. And even after all that, she's dead." He narrows his eyes. "Time for some payment, don't you think?"

"I paid you back already. You're standing here alive, Squirrel. Don't forget that."

"You didn't do crap. Get over yourself, and bring. Them. Back." Dean hisses.

Crowley looks unperturbed. "And if I refuse, what are you going to do to me?"

Dean doesn't bat an eyelid. He's had too much. "If you refuse, Crowley," he says menacingly, "I still have the spell that Sam used to kill Abaddon. Right here with me." He pulls the little, old book out of his pocket, and Crowley's eyes widen. Dean clenches his jaw. "After the A-class douche you've been to me, Sam, and Cas, don't think I'll hesitate for even a minute."

There is a beat of silence. Then Crowley clears his throat. "Fine," he says, "you'll have them in time for breakfast."

"Good," Dean replies. "Now fuck off."

The words are hardly out of his mouth, when Crowley disappears with a snap of his fingers.

**~o~**

"What did you do?"

It's not the most unexpected question, but Dean looks nonchalantly at Sam's pissed and towering profile. "Nothing, Sam," he says.

"Really? Because I don't believe you."

Dean goes back to look at his parents who are seated at the table in the kitchen, their faces saturated with confusion as they try to catch a glimpse of him and Sam. They had arrived at the doorstep a while ago. Sam had reached them first, only to get the shock of his life. After another round of tests to determine they were indeed the real John and Mary, Sam had let them in, all the while not calling Dean and Cas and not letting them know of this new development.

Their parents remembered the events from two days ago perfectly, and Mary explained how she and John had been contemplating helping Dean and Castiel with killing Gan, when they'd been taken over by sudden blackness, only to have it clear two days later.

Sam led them to the kitchen, to where Cas was trying to get Dean to eat, and asked them to sit down while he talked to Dean.

"Dean," Sam says warningly, "don't lie."

"I'm not lying," Dean replies. "I didn't do anything, okay? Crowley owed us, and he returned the favour."

"Owed us?"

"He got me to take the Mark," Dean snaps. "He's why I'm fucked up in the first place. So I told him to pay up."

"And he just listened? He didn't want anything in return?"

"I threatened him with the spell you used to kill Abaddon," Dean shrugs. "Guy was peeing in his pants." He pauses at Sam's surprised, disbelieving expression, and sighs. "I wasn't going to do it, Sammy — just accept this kind of crap again. The number of things I — _we_ have had to take lying down is fucking crazy. I can't do that anymore. So when I could do something about the latest crappy situation in our lives, I did it." He looks into Sam's eyes, willing his brother to understand.

At long last, Sam lets out a sharp breath. "Yeah," he says, "guess you're right. I understand. Sorry." He pauses. "Dean…"

"Yeah?" Dean asks him.

Sam has a thoughtful expression on his face, and he lets out a tiny puff of breath, before speaking again. "We need to go see a doctor."

Dean scoffs. "You mean _I_ need to get looked at."

Sam swallows, hesitates, and then offers a small nod.

"No, Sammy," Dean replies.

"Dean—"

"I don't want it," whispers Dean. "Please."

"But—"

"They'll touch me. Prod me. Want samples of—" Dean swallows, and he sees the colour drain from Sam's face. "I'm a victim," he murmurs, feeling sick. "I'm a fucking _rape_ victim."

"No, Dean, don't say that."

"You think so too," Dean replies.

Sam doesn't reply to that. He doesn't seem to know what to say. However, he also finds his voice a minute after. "Just blood tests, okay? I'll ask them to let me draw your blood, if you want."

Dean considers the offer, and peers into Sam's desperate eyes. "Okay," he says, at long last, and senses Sam relax. "Fine."

Silence prevails for a few moments. Suddenly, Dean grins at his brother and waggles his eyebrows. "I'm awesome, Sam. You gotta say that now," he says, diverting the topic, because he physically can't talk about that anymore. He _can't_.

Sam snorts, and cottons on. "You wish."

"Aw, come on!"

"I don't lie, Dean."

"That's bullshit."

Sam grins back at Dean, and scratches at his nose. "I think Mom and Dad are dying to talk to us."

"Talk to _me_ , you mean."

"You're an asshole," Sam says, as they start to head back to the kitchen.

Dean sniggers at his brother. "I'll always be their favourite, Sammy. You'll find out. You're too dorky."

Sam reaches a hand forward and smacks Dean on his side. As soon as he does it, though, he freezes, apparently realising what he's done when Dean stiffens. _It's just Sam. Just Sam just Sam just… Samsamsamsam._ He coaxes himself to calm down. It's so fucking hard for him to do this. Why is it so hard?

Dean hears his brother take a breath behind him, obviously intending to apologise, but he turns to Sam, maintaining his grin with some effort. "You're just too jealous for your own good, Sam." And then he feels a genuine smile forming on his face. "It's why they like me better than you."

**~o~**

**_Sam_ **

It's all Sam can do to not stomp his foot and growl at his brother, but he reminds himself that he is an adult, before following Dean into the kitchen. And he knows that things are not okay — hell, they're not even _close_ to being okay—but he'll take it as it comes. Because he knows that someday, it will all get better. Some things can't be completely salvaged, but the pain can definitely be reduced. And that's what life is. No one escapes this.

So it all boils down to the fact that whatever Sam has, whatever he and Dean have, it will have to do for now. They will have to live with it and they'll have to derive their happiness from it. Anyway, that's what happiness is about. It's not universal; it's personal. And life it not a fairy-tale: it's a Shakespearean tragedy where everybody suffers and dies, but at the end there's a resolution.

And God, Dean will have a ball if he hears the literary thoughts in Sam's head.

Sam chuckles to himself and joins his family at his table, thanking his stars that Dean cannot read his mind right now. He promises himself that he will help Dean. That no matter what, he will see Dean through this and stand right there by his side, and be the brother he hadn't been in a long time.

Some wounds take longer to heal than the others, and even when they do, they scar. You cannot heal scars — but you can put some salve on them if and when they burn. And everybody has scars — some more than the others. The only difference is sometimes you have someone watching your back, ready with the right medicine when the pain and burning is too much to bear.

**The End**

 

** **

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone, for reading this! This was an emotional roller coaster for both of us, and we've written it through nights of chatting and voicemail and staying up and not waking up and breaking into song and Bollywood and chakki peesing and peesing and Dean and Cas sexy dancing around pyramids and uni and night shifts in the ER and the labour room and smiles and tears and so many things. It's been a bittersweet ride. :)
> 
> Next year, we'll be writing a sequel to this story. When we wrote this, we largely felt that it was incomplete, and we wanted to elaborate on John and Mary and the boys' healing process. But, this fic was getting too long, so sequel it is! We hope you'll join us for that ride as well.
> 
> Thanks once again, for giving us a chance! Love you guys!


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